


Fire In Their Veins

by Caitlinisacorpse



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Canon compliant in early chapters, Canon-Typical Violence, Cinna plays a bigger part in this one, F/M, Horror, Hunger Games, Hunger games still exist, Minor Katniss Everdeen/Gale Hawthorne, Non-Canonical Violence, POV Katniss Everdeen, Panem Capitol Citizens, Slow burn in the romance department, Undead, Warnings May Change, class divides, just a little differently here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28311510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitlinisacorpse/pseuds/Caitlinisacorpse
Summary: Surviving - that's what we've been doing since everything fell. Calling it living just cheapens the word.In a world plagued by a devastating virus that marks more than who it kills, how do you protect the ones you love? The answer is violently, whether you like it or not.AU Hunger Games with zombies! Eventual Everlark. Here's your gore warning.
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 29





	1. Surviving

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This is my first ever attempt at fanfiction, so any (friendly) criticism is greatly appreciated! I reread the Hunger Games during Lockdown and have not been able to get this idea out of my head since. I've never posted anything I've written publicly before, so if you like it (or even if you don't) please let me know! Thanks for clicking!

I will never get used to the smell of burning flesh.

The smoke furls up towards the grey Autumn sky. I watch as the wind carries it off towards the dense thicket of trees behind the barbwire fence. It leaves the putrid, strangely sweet stench behind. I keep my eyes trained on the tips of the flames, careful not to lower my gaze enough to see the charred remains of the bodies burning on the gravel below. This does nothing to dampen the sound of the sizzling pops and cracks, the odd high-pitched whine of an eyeball melting. No one wants to be on ‘burn duty,’ but it is a necessary evil now. I don’t have the stomach (nor the bedside manner, as my sister Prim will tell you) for living patients, but I can understand why the dead need to burn. Corpses harbour infection, and infection left unchecked creates a whole new evil we have trouble dealing with as it is.

I pull my scarf tighter around the lower half of my face and cross my arms over my chest. Summer turned its back on the world quickly this year. I miss the warmth already. I shiver slightly as I try not to think of the inevitable rain and snow in my future, and what that will do to our hunting prospects. I try to remind myself that we’re prepared; that this winter will be easier than the ones we’ve already survived since everything fell. 

‘Surviving’ – That’s what we’ve been doing. Any of us who are left. Calling it ‘living’ just cheapens the word. 

My eyes drift from the dying fire in front of me to the snarling, violent bodies on the other side of the twenty-foot fence beyond it. I don’t know if they would agree with me on that sentiment. Although, whether or not they have the autonomy to agree or disagree with my musings is another matter entirely. I’m fairly certain the only thing we’d agree on is that I’m likely better off dead, anyway. 

I uncross my arms and, almost subconsciously, begin to trace the scars on the inside of my right wrist with the pad of my thumb, feeling every indent and every smooth patch of raised, healed skin. The mark isn’t new by any means, but even after years it’s still hot to the touch, and the cold air on my exposed skin is refreshing. 

I focus my attention on one of the smaller things moving beyond the safety of the barbwire. It stands a little further away from the rest of its screeching companions. Its movements are erratic and unnatural, but my instinct tells me it’s looking for a way in. I’m too far away from the border the fence provides to make out any clear indicators, but my imagination fills in enough gruesome details for me to realize that our positions could be switched, if the circumstances were different. The creature stands hunched and presses itself against the metal of the fence, but it can’t be more than five feet tall. It has the same long, dark wild hair as me, though with the added colours of rusted red and brown, gore matted into it. Its skin stands in sharp, pale contrast to the blood and grime it’s covered in, and I wonder briefly if it – she – looked that way in life, too, or if the colour was leached in death. 

Without really meaning to, I find myself slowly gravitating closer to the fence. My worn boots kick up ash as I pass the burn pile, still staring down this ‘could-have-been’ version of myself. The sounds of the flames behind me are replaced with the low growls and shrieks of the twitching monsters in front of me, growing louder and more energized as I get closer. Scanning quickly, I count eight moving corpses. There’s no real danger, I know. The fences are patrolled and checked for weaknesses daily, and I haven’t been outside without a weapon in years. I've taken care of greater numbers single-handedly without blinking an eye. Still, my feet carry me only close enough for my eyes to define the facial features of my new muse before I stop myself. 

Her nose is slimmer than mine. An infected-looking deep gash has sagged her left cheek, but the right side shows a familiar bone structure. My forehead is bigger, and though it’s nearly impossible to tell under the blood and grime and dirt, I imagine freckles dotted across her face to match my own. Her bloodless lips are bared in a vicious snarl, and her teeth are brown and gnashing. It's difficult to gage, but I guess she might have been around my age, sixteen or so. I trail my eyes down her body, or what's left of it. Emaciated, with loose skin hanging where curves might have been once. I think grimly that I might not have looked far off from this a few years ago. She’s wearing the tattered remains of a sun dress, the colour faded and hardly distinguishable. The fingers of her left hand, filthy and mottled with old bruises, curl around the links in the fence like vice grips. Light from the late afternoon sun gleams off a dulled diamond on her third finger, and my stomach rolls unpleasantly. I glance over to where her right arm should be and I tighten my lips as I take in the ripped ribbons of flesh and sinew that feather away from the festering stump just below her elbow. My fingers press into my scar again, unwillingly imagining how that kind of pain might feel compared to mine. 

Surprisingly, what makes me gasp and take a step back are her eyes. The slices of green around the huge black pupils are dull and distant in the watery sunlight, glazed over with the yellowed tinge of the disease she succumbed to. More unsettling though, is the quantified and palpable rage that emanates through this thing and bores into my being. I’ve seen this look before – any time I’ve bothered to look in a mirror since the change. 

I wonder if there’s a chance we might have known each other if things were different. Did she grow up in the Seam? Would I have passed her in the Hob? Was she even from the same district? I've seen others I thought I might have met once or twice, from before. It seems like some of them stay in familiar areas, still tied to long-forgotten habits. I guess it doesn't matter. I'll never know her now, and the only thing she wants to know about me is how hot my blood is. 

We stare at each other in silence. The others around us are all making a cacophony of noise – strangled groans, the shuffling of leaden feet, the metallic scraping of bones against fence. I find it odd that my new friend seems to be holding a silent vigil, until she widens her mouth in a silent scream of fury, and I notice the hole gaping from her throat, just under her chin. A shotgun wound from a gun with bad aim, maybe. Her vocal chords were likely eviscerated. 

“I hope you aren't hurting,” I mumble. 

The jury is still out on whether these things feel anything other than the desperate, constant need to inflict maximum pain, but a part of me thinks that a quick death from a bullet might still be preferable to the blinding hatred. Hell, sometimes I think a bullet might still be preferable to what I let myself feel, when the distractions fail to numb it. 

My eyes shoot back up to the dead ones I’ve been in a hopeless staring contest with, and I feel a distant pang of…something. It might be pity, but the more selfish parts of me whisper that it feels more like jealousy.  
This girl, whoever she was, worries about nothing now but sating her bloodlust. There's no gnawing anxiety to keep her awake through most nights. No constant feeling of never doing enough. No suffocating fear of failing to protect the ones attached to her. Just cold, hard anger. Nothing else to care about. 

She lunges at me, shaking the fence and drawing her fellow corpses over to our direction. The spell breaks, and I turn my head to face our growing audience, breathing through my own anger. I know I should feel grateful. The whole damn world fell down, and through pure luck and circumstance, I stayed standing. 

Thinking of Prim, and Mother, and Gale, guilt floods my veins and I kick a rock towards the fence. I watch it roll under a gap and land in front of my rotting look-a-like. She flails at me again, her mouth opened wide in another silent howl. 

“I'm sorry,” I whisper. And I am. I'm terribly sorry and feeling so very guilty that we stand on opposite ends of the fence. A powerless feeling, one that I’ve grown used to by now, washes over me as I watch this angry, lifeless woman throw herself mechanically at the barrier.

In a last show of mercy, I step purposefully up to the fence and pull out my knife. In one swift movement, the blade slides through a hole in the chain-link to push through her eye, so much like my own, and she stills immediately. She falls towards me, her forehead hitting the fence with a thud, and I pull my knife back, gritting my teeth when it sticks a little on the socket bone.  
I close my eyes and breathe in deep until my lungs burn with the frigid air. I wonder vaguely how long I’ve been out here. Mother will probably send someone to check on me soon. Since she's been back in this reality, she’s kept as much of a grip on Prim and I as she can.

As if on cue, I hear footsteps sauntering in my direction. There's no haste to them, and I smirk from beneath my scarf. I know who it is before I turn around.  
Gale whistles tunelessly as he approaches, hands shoved in his pockets. He and I know not to sneak up on each other, though we're both more than capable. The tall man approaches me slowly, an easy smile playing on his lips as he watches me wipe my blade off on my pants. 

“Hey Catnip,” he calls. The childhood nickname he graced me with years ago carries across the field. “I thought Tom and Jonah were on guard duty tonight,” he says, surveying the desolate ensemble to my back. His eyes linger on the girl slumped in a heap at my feet, viscera still oozing from her eye socket. 

“They're on the south side. I had burn duty so I told them I could take care of things over here,” I explain, pulling my scarf down. It's only half a lie. I haven’t seen the pair yet this evening, but it's an un-spoken rule that you deal with intruders if you see them first. Anyone in the district over the age of sixteen has unofficial guard duty at least once a week. It technically breaks the curfew laws, but the peacekeepers turn a blind eye when they can. As the poorest district in Panem, we have to make do with what we have. 

“Ah. Well, wouldn't want to waste a chance to stabilize things, would we?” Gale quips, drawing out the word. My smirk widens a little at the joke. 

Stabilize - the favourite word of our newly elected mayor, Adam Undersee. He talked a big game about stabilizing our district during election season, lamenting about making deals with his Capital contacts. He vowed to end the constant hunger and anxiety that clouds the thoughts of everyone here. He made promises that hungry, frightened citizens ate up with vigour, but words don't fill stomachs. Gale has voiced his distaste for district politics for years, but this is the first year I’ve joined in. There may be less virus casualties since Undersee has been in charge, but there's been no end to the tiny, starving bodies on my mother's kitchen table, nor to the distraught parents who can't keep them fed. If things don't change soon, the hunger epidemic will overtake the current one. 

Gale and I do what we can, but it never seems like enough. We risk our lives and the wrath of the peacekeepers to hunt beyond the security fences whenever we're able, though it’s strictly forbidden for safety reasons. Whatever we can spare, we trade with other families or sell for more-than-fair prices. Sometimes, when Gale isn’t around to talk me out of it, I’ll drop food off, free of charge, to the orphanage or to families I know will go without otherwise. Gale tells me not to be stupid, that we can barely keep our own families fed, let alone the rest of the Seam. My answer is almost always the same: if no one had helped me, I'd be dead. 

I smile sardonically to myself at the thought that passes through my mind: maybe that would have been for the best. A bitter taste rises from the back of my throat that isn’t all to do with the stench in the air. If this is the only kind of life I can expect, I’m not sure why I’m fighting so hard for it. 

Gale brings me out of my dark reverie with a rough hip-check as he closes the space between us. He's taller than me, though nearly everyone is. Broad-shouldered and lean, the man beside me is one of my best and only friends. I guess constantly saving each other’s skins creates a bond that's hard to ignore.

“Come on, then. Light's gunna quit on us, soon,” he says, pulling out his own knife. He strides over to the fence-line and repeats my actions from a few minutes before; deftly slicing through the skulls of the growling corpses and letting them drop. I join him, and in no time the fence line is littered with unmoving cadavers in varying states of decay. We're left in the pressing quiet that only lasts for a few minutes after stabilizing an area. 

“Guards probably got it from here,” he shrugs, looking across the field behind us. He nods at the smoldering embers of the abandoned burn pile. “Should deal with that too, before we go back."

“I can handle it, if you want to get back home. Rory will eat your share if you're late for dinner,” I say. Gale's little brother is all skin and bones, but already has the appetite of a bear at twelve years old. We make jokes about it, but I know Gale worries about how he'll fare when there’s even less to provide. 

“Nah,” Gale argues, “I'll probably just get in shit if I go back without you. Can't have you catching a cold out here by yourself, your mother will kill me.” He side-eyes me, smirking at his own joke. I glare back and huff up at him, a few escaped hairs from my braid blowing off my cheek.

“Do what you want. My mother didn't have any idea where I was for years. She can stand to wait a little longer now.”

I don’t mean for the words to come out so venomous, but they aren’t untrue. When my father was killed in combat five years ago, he took a piece of my mother with him. She gave up on my sister and I completely, hiding in bed and refusing to acknowledge that she was still breathing. I was left to pick up the pieces and fend for Prim and myself. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hold that against her, even if she’s since woken up again. 

Gale doesn’t comment, but he makes no move to head home either. He knows where I'm coming from, having lost his own father in the same combat mission as mine. I sigh and turn back to the burn pile, still smoldering and sending up smoke signals.

I start to rub my wrist again, suddenly very aware of the fact that the anniversary of my father's death is coming up soon. Prim wakes up early on that day every year to drag me to his makeshift grave before school. There was no body to bury, but we made a marker in the meadow just before the district limits, ‘so we would always remember him' Prim had said. She was so small when he died that I don’t see how she could even remember what he looked like, but I could never tell her no.

Unlike my sister, I don’t want to remember. I try to forget the date every year. I try to forget the people we lost that day. I try not to think about how it was all my fault that they’re gone. I always try, but I can never quite succeed.

Gale looks over at me and silently pulls my fingers away from my arm. The skin around my scar is pink and irritated. He doesn't have to ask what I’m thinking about. We've grown acquainted with each other's demons. He links his arm through mine and walks us closer to the embers. 

“Just tell her I wanted to swing by the Hob,” Gale says. “It’s my last week of freedom. Tell her I wanted to say goodbye to everyone.”

I nod, an uneasy feeling settling into my chest at the reminder. Gale turns nineteen next week. That means he'll officially be a soldier in combat, which also means our time together is about to lessen significantly. We've already agreed that I’ll continue hunting alone, and providing meat to his family while he’s away on missions. The money he'll earn as a soldier will vastly improve their livelihood, but the danger that comes with the position is a heavy price to pay for it. Soldiers who pass their combat training end up on one of three teams: defence, scouting, or transport. None of them has a long life expectancy. 

“That reminds me,” Gale continues in my silence. “There really are a few girls I need to say goodbye to, if you know what I mean.”

I know what he means.

Gale's been using sex as his favourite outlet for a few years now. I've been introduced to a slew of girls who’s names I don't bother to keep track of. Most are from the Seam; girls I grew up with but never bothered to befriend. A few of them have been merchant girls, looking to rebel against their parents with a so-called Seam Brat. With his rugged good looks and brooding manner, Gale's never had trouble getting the girl. His wild temper and hard head makes keeping them around more of the problem. I’ve caught the tail-end of more than a few (one-sided) teary-eyed break-ups. It never seems to bother him much, and it's never long before there's a new replacement. It all seems exhausting to me. Survival has always been my priority. It’s left little room for anything else. 

I've kept a tight circle of acquaintances since childhood, and an even tighter knot of people I call friends. I keep as low of a social profile as I can, Gale's advice aside. The more people you know, the more people you care about. This new world doesn't allow for a lot of caring, I've learned from personal experience. Caring too much puts survival on the back-burner, and no one can afford to do that yet. 

Gale coughs and scrunches his nose as we near what’s left of the bodies I'm in charge of disposing of. The flames have nearly died out already, but I grab the pail of water I had set aside anyway. I cover my face with my scarf again as I dump the water over the coals. They sizzle as thick, acrid smoke rises. The smell is intensified, and I’m looking forward to scrubbing it out of my pores in the tub when I get home. I’m wondering whether I’ve left it too late for the hope of any hot water when Gale coughs again, a little more pointedly.

“Anyone we know this time?” He asks, dancing out of the smoke's way. I shrug.

“Mostly training bodies. The old woman from the flower stand at the Hob. Died of some lung thing last night,” I explain, keeping my eyes downcast and my voice void of emotion. The soldiers use any available bodies they can in combat training. A shot of muscle relaxers and removal of the teeth and jaw makes the corpses harmless enough to train new recruits with. But the old woman was practically a relic here. We don't use civilians if we can help it. A simple funeral service was held for her this morning. I didn't go. Death is inevitable, even more so now. Getting choked up over it doesn't change the fact. 

Gale nods and sweeps his eyes over the ashes. 

“Anyone from the Scout team?” he asks quietly. My gaze snaps up from the ground to glare at my friend.

“No. Why would there be? They're not due back until next week,” I demand, watching his face. His cheek twitches, and I know he regrets asking the question out loud. 

“Right. You're right. Got the dates mixed up, I guess,” he brushes it off, but I narrow my eyes, suddenly suspicious. Gale isn't dumb. He can be reckless, and stubborn, and hot-headed, but you don't get hand-picked for Special Defence training like he did by forgetting the return date of your future teammates. For all of his griping about politics, no one follows military movement like Gale does. I worry my bottom lip between my teeth, but say nothing more on the matter. 

“This’ll do,” I say, gesturing to the dissipating smoke, “Tom will see this. He'll come by before his shift ends and make sure it's all out for good. I'm going to try to get some food before it's cold.”

I’m not planning on getting food. I’m planning on heading directly to the command center building to see for myself if they’re back. I place the pail back beside the pile of bones and ash and cross my arms against the cold again, turning towards the pathway to our community. I start off, but stop and look over my shoulder when I don't hear Gale's heavy footsteps following me. He's still standing where I left him, staring at me with a decidedly guilty look on his face. I watch him run a rough hand through his dark hair before blowing out a breath and jogging to catch up to where I am. 

I don't say anything when he stops short beside me, just shoot a particularly hard scowl his way. Something's up. We don't keep things from each other.  
Gale smiles one of his best charmers, but I know better than to fall for it. I raise an eyebrow, waiting. We both know I might be the only match for his stubborn streak. He shrugs a shoulder and tries to step past me, but I move backwards and block his way. 

“Why did you ask about the scouts?” I don’t raise my voice, but my tone betrays me with creeping panic.  
Gale heaves an exaggerated sigh and scratches the back of his neck. For a moment, his face shows its real age of nearly nineteen instead of the more mature man he's had to be, and my anxiety sinks its claws in a little deeper. He stares down at me, his cheeks reddening slightly under the pressure of my glare. He huffs out another exasperated breath and holds his hands up in surrender.

“Katniss, why do you care?” he stutters, looking anywhere but at me. His sheepish expression would be comical in any other situation. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” I ask, louder than I want to be. “They’re our people, aren't they?” 

Gale merely looks to the ground and purses his lips. A few moments of tense silence linger before he asks in a low voice, “Are you sure it’s not because he was with them?” 

I hesitate, my tongue fumbling over the right words, but I can’t hide my expression fast enough. Gale knows the answer. 

I do care more about the scouting team because of him. Peeta Mellark. 

He’s the same age as me, but with a merchant family and a body that has likely never known real hunger until very recently, Peeta dwarfs me in size. He’s popular around town, and I’ve seen the easy way he connects with just about anyone he talks to. I wasn’t surprised to hear he'd been chosen as an early recruit to the Scout training program. Minors are rarely ever asked to join the military, and Gale had a lot of things to say about it when he found out. It was through him that I learned Peeta was on his first real scouting mission.

“You barely know anything about him!” Gale cries, his tone indignant, “What do you care if Mellark gets himself torn up?” 

He isn’t entirely wrong. Mellark and I have barely spoken in years, only a cursory nod in the school hallway or a half-smile in town. The friends he keeps are the same people who would spit insults at me in the school hallways. I don't have any reason to speak to him, nor does he to me, but I can’t pretend we haven’t caught each other staring more than once. Gale’s noticed, and so has Prim, but they don't understand. I’m not sure I really understand it myself. Gale scoffs and often makes remarks about the merchant kid being a snob and how strange it was that his father was friends with the leader of the scout team. Prim giggles when she sees him looking and calls it a crush. I don't think either of them have it right, but I can’t explain to them why this boy is at all important to me. How do you explain how a stranger gave you the strength to keep going when nothing else could? 

“So he is back, then” I whisper. I mean to say they’re back, but there's no question of who I'm interested in the whereabouts of right now. Gale flicks his eyes up to mine, but continues his silent treatment. 

“Gale…” I hate the pleading note in my voice. I dig my fingernails into my forearms and try to keep my breath even. There's only two reasons a scouting mission heads home ahead of schedule. They either find enough refugees to deplete their supplies earlier than expected or...

The inquiry as to whether or not I was burning a team member confirms my fear. It’s the second reason, and my heart sinks. My stomach gifts me with a wave of nausea and I shoot one last furious look at my best friend before I turn on my heel and sprint towards town. I hear pounding footsteps and I know I’m not running alone. 

“Katniss, wait! I'm sorry, okay? They’re fine! He's alive!”

I stop dead and immediately, I'm shoved forward again by force of impact when Gale slams into my back. We stumble forward, and I whip around and send a sharp blow to my friend's face before he can get his groundings back. He holds his hand to his jaw, letting out a shout of surprise.

“Katniss, what the hell?” he screams, rubbing his face with his palm. 

“What’s wrong with you?” I snarl. 

My hands curl into fists at my sides, fingernails digging into the flesh of my palms. My breaths come quicker and quicker. I can hear my heart beating erratically in my ears. A red tinge is leaking into the edges of my vision, blurring my surroundings. The scar on my wrist pulses with a burning heat. Fleetingly, I register that I need to calm down, immediately. The lingering side-effects of the infection that couldn't kill me remind me who's still really in control. 

I leer up at Gale, and I know he's struggling, too. His teeth are bared in a grimace and he's rubbing his left shoulder, where his own scar hides. His other hand clenches and unclenches, no doubt begging him to let it wrap around my throat. 

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” He manages to bark at me through labored breaths. “I just don't get the appeal.”

He takes a step backward on shaky legs, but I make up the distance in two quick steps of my own.

“Why do you care? What does it matter?” I spit at him. I’m vaguely aware that the voice that snags its way out of my throat sounds nothing like my own. We stand nearly chest to chest, and my lips pull back in a snarl as I calculate how much closer I need to get before I can rip his throat out with my teeth. 

Gale laughs humourlessly in my face. It comes out more like a cackle. I cock my head to the side, looking for the best angle. Let him laugh. I'll laugh harder when his blood is dripping down my chin.

We react at the same time. I spring forward just has his hands make contact with my shoulders. My teeth snap together, the sound ringing across the field, but they catch only air. Gale's huge hands throw me down to the ground. All the air leaves my lungs and I gasp at the impact when I hit the hardened earth. I can feel the vibrations in the dirt as he stomps towards me. He plants himself over me, a foot on either side of my head. I shoot an arm up to grab at something, anything, but the foot smashes down on my reaching fingers, crushing them on the cold ground under his boot. An unearthly scream tears from my throat as I writhe underneath him. The pain is there, but it’s nothing compared to the white hot rage that courses through my body. I want to hurt him. I want to kill him. I want to destroy him. 

I throw my head back to tell him as much, when our eyes lock together. Grey on grey, both irises nearly hidden entirely by the black of grossly dilated pupils. I get a brief flash of memory, the girl at the fence and her own consuming anger, before my attacker’s face disappears from view. 

I blink, and strain my head back wildly, waiting for the next blow. Instead, I get a distorted, upside down image of my best friend kneeling against the sky, shaking with suppressed sobs. 

I gaze at the scene in confusion for a few moments as I try to control my breathing. My red-filtered vision begins to sharpen as it morphs back into technicolour. The rage is still present, but the longer I lie here, trying to regulate my furious heartbeat, more and more of it is swallowed by the self-loathing that follows every episode like this. I flex my fingers and wince as the real pain finally hits me. Probably not broken, but wielding any weapon in this hand won't be fun for a while.  
I'm about to force myself to roll over and check on the shivering man in front of me when he raises his head and takes in a deep lungful of air. I open my mouth to call out to him, but before I can find my voice, he lets out a shout of raucous, booming laughter. I realize his shaking is not due to tears, and my confusion grows.  
He scrubs a hand over his face and looks at me, still open-mouthed on my back, and laughs harder. This laugh is his though, not the cold and menacing one from a few minutes ago. I think we might both be clear-headed again.

“What's so funny?” I grumble, rolling onto my side. My back aches from my fall.

“It's just so – so stupid! All of this – All of this for – for what?” Gale wheezes. He's on all fours now, trying without much success to control himself.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, eying him warily. I’m starting to rethink the status of his head.

“What are we even still doing here,” he gasps, “when we should both be out there in the wild, taking this out on the right things?”

“Gale, you know why we have to stay here,” I tell him slowly. “Our families need us. You know that.”

“Yeah, until we snap and kill them,” the man in front of me spits. He sits back on his heels, wiping tears of mirth from his cheeks. 

I groan, too exhausted for this common argument. We go around in circles, planning to run away, deciding to stay instead. Neither of us are ever happy with either plan. Deep down, I know Gale's right. We don't belong here. We're unpredictable and barely in control of ourselves. But I could never leave Prim. She was already abandoned once by her own blood, I could never do it to her again. Though, the darker parts of my mind wander at Gale's words. Would I ever hurt Prim? Could I become so out of control that I do snap and do something even more terrible? I shoot that thought down before it even fully forms, swearing to myself that I would never, ever hurt Prim or anyone else I love. The problem is, for people like Gale and I, you just never know for certain.

Immune – that’s what they call people like us. The lucky ones, they say. The mysterious virus that killed over half the population of Panem and turned them into violent, blood-thirsty monsters didn't always do what it was supposed to. In fact, for people like me, it practically did the opposite. Those who are immune don't die from the virus, and we don't come back after, either. What we get instead is the ability to feel the purest form of rage. It's an anger that I didn't realise existed until I was bitten. It takes you over completely, forcing you to do horrible things and gives you thoughts that make your skin crawl. It doesn't ever stop wanting more. I can control it, most of the time, but it never goes away. I can feel the heat in my veins, like my blood is on fire. Far from enjoyable, it’s a prickling, lurking hunger that is never sated. There's no cure. There's no end to it. All I can do is survive it.  
Gale's soft chuckles die down as we both lay in the grass, listening to our heartbeats returning to a normal pace. Finally, my sluggish mind finds its way back to the cause of our fight. 

“I still don't see what that has to do with the scout team,” I question, breaking the silence. As my brain starts to un-fog, the catalyst for our double-episode looms back up to the front of my mind. Why does it matter to Gale what Peeta means to me? Gale is practically my brother. Jealousy couldn't be the issue here. Maybe he's still just caught up on the longstanding division between the merchant class and the rest of us in the seam. Maybe this is the virus making him paranoid. I don't know. Thinking about this is giving me a headache already. 

Gale throws me a hard look. 

“I just don't trust him, Katniss. People like him don't pay attention to people like us without a reason.” 

I avert my eyes and pick at the grass under my fingers. My hand still throbs from Gale's boot. I don't give him an answer. The only reason I can think of is far-fetched and too complicated to explain. 

We lay in silence a little longer, until I remember why Gale followed me out here in the first place. I bolt up into a sitting position, rewarded immediately with a dizzy spell and a pounding in my ears. I bend my aching legs and push myself up, but nearly stumble down again. 

“Yeah, your mother's going to kill me, ” Gale nods, hoisting himself up to a shaky standing position. His hand slides into his pocket, and I tense automatically, still on edge. Instead of a weapon, he pulls out a brown pouch and with a practiced movement, unties the bag and shakes two white capsules into his palm. He pulls the string of the bag closed and throws it down to me.

“Should take two, it'll help with your hand,” he suggests. “Sorry ‘bout that, by the way.” 

“Sorry about your face,” I reply. There’s a shade of purple blooming over his jaw where my fist first connected. I shake the pills into my hand and dry-swallow them both. I shudder as the bitter things slide down my throat, but I know they’re another necessary evil we've been faced with. I wait for the medication to hit my system and soothe my frayed nerves. After a few minutes, I start to feel the cool tingle in my scar tissue that lets me know it's doing what it's supposed to.

Gale limps over and extends his arm down to me. I take it and pull myself up on slightly sturdier feet. We dust ourselves off and he pulls me in for a quick, brisk hug. This is the most we'll dwell over the matter. It isn't the first time we've let our anger win out against each other, and experience tells me it won't be the last. 

“Come on,” He sighs, “I think even ‘last goodbyes' still has its time limits.” 

He throws an arm around my shoulder and starts to lead the way back inside. I smile weakly and let him lead us. We might have just finished trying to kill each other, but I know without a doubt that we'd sooner die for each other first.

I take one last look over my shoulder towards the fence before we head home. A few more corpses have wandered to its edge, banging listlessly against the metal. The jealousy still persists, if I’m being honest with myself, but as I get closer to home, and the people I love, I feel a little more grateful than before.


	2. The Patient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! Thank you so much to anyone who read, bookmarked, subscribed, or gave kudos to the first chapter of this novel! I had no idea how motivating those little notifications could be! I hope I'm doing the characters justice, and again, please let me know what you think in a comment if you feel so inclined! Much love!

The grateful feeling starts to lessen the closer we get to home. My crushed hand is aching fiercely and my back burns with every step. The pills we take lessen the effects of post-episodic symptoms, but they don't stop the exhaustion that settles directly into my bones. The will to continue walking to the command building at the centre of town becomes weaker with every step. Gale said the scout team made it back safely. That should be enough to calm my nerves. I start to feel foolish for sprinting off. What place do I have to barge in there demanding answers? What would I even say? As far as anyone knows, I don’t have any personal connection to anyone on a militia team, and the commander would only tell me to wait for the weekly public briefing anyway.

Gale and I say good night as we reach my front porch. I see him off with a promise to meet tomorrow morning for a hunt before training. I pause before heading inside, watching him disappear into the twilight towards his family's house. 

The front door opens with a familiar squeak as I head inside, desperate to scrub the ash out of my skin and fall into an early sleep. The pills make me lose my appetite completely, and though I know I should try to eat, I’m happy to give up my dinner to Prim tonight.  
I hear muffled voices coming from the living room as I kick my boots off and unravel my scarf. The clinical smell of antiseptic wafts through the hallway, a tell-tale sign that my mother is with a patient. She’s not a doctor in the formal sense, but for those who can't afford the ever-rising prices the only real doctor in the district charges, she’s their only choice. I grew up learning about the medicinal properties of herbs and plants, knowledge my mother learned from her days working in her parents' apothecary. Prim took to the lessons much more than I did. The smell alone makes me queasy. I’ve seen my fair share of the sick and wounded, first from mine explosions in the before-days, then many more once the virus took hold. I feel helpless around them, and often make any excuse I can to leave the house when they arrive. I don’t make any excuses tonight though. The twilight is descending into darkness outside, and I hope that I can just slip through to the bedroom to fall into a heavy sleep.

Instead, Prim catches me in the front hall before I can even finish hanging my jacket up. She pulls down her cotton mask with gloved hands, the only protection she has against the virus. Prim, nor Mother, are immune as far as we know. There’s no test to tell, apart from being bitten, and I’ve begged Mother to stop letting Prim treat potentially infected people until my throat goes raw. It’s never worked. Both of them are healers by nature, and Mother insists they’re following all the Capital's safety protocols. The virus travels through blood and saliva, they say, so as long as there’s no direct contact with bodily fluids, Mother says they’re safe. I don't agree. I’ve felt first-hand the power and the rage of the infection, and neither gloves nor masks will protect them if someone turns on Mother's table. 

“Where have you been?” Prim asks, following me as I head to the kitchen. “We’ve been worried! Mother asked Gale to go look for you.”

“Sorry, little duck,” I say, placating my little sister with her favourite nickname, “Burn duty took longer than I thought. How was school?” 

“Fine. Mr. Davidson postponed the history exam because too many kids are missing. Meredith’s in isolation because her little brother's sick. I took schoolwork to her house for her,” Prim says, so nonchalantly. “Her father says it's probably just a cold, but I’m going to bring them some fever herbs tomorrow, just in case.” 

Her footsteps echo off the cracked tiles as she shadows me through the tiny kitchen. A sadness swells in my chest as I think about how different Prim's childhood is from mine. School is only compulsory until seventh year, when defence training begins. Prim only has another year left before her last sense of normality is stripped from her. She was so small during the first outbreak that this is all she knows. Isolation, fever remedies, friends suddenly no longer beside her in class. Things I never had to worry about at her age are just common-place now. 

“That's good, Prim,” is all I can tell her. “Just be careful. Wear your mask and don't go inside.”

“Of course, I'm not dumb!” Prim laughs. “Anyway, Mama wants to see you once you’re washed up. She said it’s important.”

I hesitate in the middle of grabbing our old copper kettle. Mother rarely asks for me to join her when she’s with a patient. I stare down the hall, ears pricked for a sense of panic or nervousness from the muffled voices in the next room. If there's a chance of an infected person in our home…

Prim follows my gaze and shakes her head, her long blonde hair swinging down her back in double braids. 

“No bite marks,” she assures me, “We checked. Temperature's normal, too. Just a minor laceration.” She pronounces the last word carefully. A term she learned today, I assume.

“Okay. Go back in and tell her I’ll be there in a moment,” I say, tugging on one of her braids. She swats my hand away and leaves the room, pulling her mask up as she goes. 

I set the kettle on our little stove, striking a match and lighting our single burner. I lean against the counter, waiting for the water to boil and willing my itching eyes to stay open. Prim laughs from the living room, her bright voice mingling with a deeper chuckle. Whoever they’re tending to in there, he must not be too badly injured. The kettle squeals, making my head ring, and I pull it off the burner quickly. I pour the steaming water into the wooden bowl beside our wash tub and begin the task of trying to get clean. Once my hands and arms are scrubbed nearly raw and my injured hand is wrapped in a clean cloth, I drain the bowl and shuffle into the living room.

My mother has her back to me, speaking in a soothing voice to the patient she’s blocking from my view. There are bloody strips of cotton laying on our coffee table, and my scar prickles as if with excitement. I elect to keep my eyes trained only on the woman in front of me. Leaning against the doorframe and crossing my arms in front of me, I clear my throat to let her know I’m here.

“Katniss,” my mother calls over her shoulder, “You missed supper.” She turns to face me, discerning eyes sweeping over me from above her mask.

“I know, Mother. I'm sorry,” I murmur. I shift my position to hide my bandaged hand. I’m not interested in the examination she'll want to give me if she sees it. 

“There’s a loaf of raisin braid in the bread box, if you’re hungry. Courtesy of our friend, here,” she says, and sidesteps to show off her charge.

Peeta Mellark looks up at me, an embarrassed half-smile playing on his lips. I can't deny the flutter of relief I feel at the sight of him alive. His blue eyes are bloodshot, and his blond curls are matted with blood on one side of his head, but he still looks like he’s in relatively good spirits. He's dressed in the black armour of the military teams, his shiny black boots swinging back and forth from his perch on the table.

“Hi Katniss,” he says shyly. His cheeks are flushed, but the rest of his skin is pale. The swinging of his legs quicken to a nervous shake. He looks to my mother apologetically.

“I can't access my military funds until next week,” he explains sheepishly. “I’ll have coin for you, then. Pa said he'll have more bread for you every day until I do.” 

The Mellarks own the only bakery in town; a family business for generations. Gale and I have traded with Mr. Mellark from time to time. I wonder if the hunger of the pandemic has finally reached the merchants if Peeta is sitting here instead of in the Doctor's office. 

“Nonsense,” says my mother with a wave of her hand. “Fresh food is worth more than gold now anyway.”

Peeta nods, lowering his eyes to his boots. He raises a hand to his hair, making to brush through the curls with his fingers, but Mother's hand deftly flies out to catch him by the wrist. 

“What did I just say?” she chastises. “No touching, or you’ll rip your stitches out. It'll be well past dark before you get home if Primrose needs to re-do them.” 

“Yes Ma'am, I’m sorry,” Peeta says softly. His cheeks redden even more, but Mother only squeezes his shoulder with a smile.

“Come look, Katniss!” Prim cries, “Mother finally let me do the stitches all by myself!” She’s clearly been itching to mention it since I arrived. 

I allow myself a cursory glance over Peeta's face and head. Just below the bloodstained hair, a neat row of stitches traces his temple to just above his right ear. The skin is stretched white there and I grimace automatically. It looks painful. His bright blue eyes raise to catch my gaze, and I quickly look away as though I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t. 

“You did really well,” Peeta says to Prim, making up for the awkward silence that follows, “I barely felt a thing.”

“Good job little duck,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. “Soon you’ll run your own clinic.”

Prim glows with pride, even as she shushes me about using nicknames in front of patients. Mother smiles warmly at her youngest daughter, then puts her back to me again as she explains the after-care instructions to Peeta for his wound. I overhear her telling him to come back to her in a week to take them out, and I make a mental note to stay away from the house until late that evening. Something about having him in my home makes me feel self-conscious. I know it’s a silly thought. It's common knowledge that the homes in the Seam are modest at best, and people from all over the district have been treated by my mother. Yet, the quick looks Peeta keeps stealing at me from over my mother's shoulder make the blood rush to my face for some reason. I don’t think he means anything cruel by it, but there’s an open curiosity there that makes me uncomfortable, and I take to watching the flames lick the fireplace to give me something else to focus on.  
I realise that Mother has dismissed Peeta when I hear the heavy thunk of his boots hitting the ground. I look up to see him swaying slightly, his hand finding purchase on the table behind him. 

“You're sure you’re okay to get home by yourself?” Mother asks. “There doesn’t seem to be any internal head trauma, but the blood loss may have you feeling light-headed for a while.” 

“Oh yes, thank you, Mrs. Everdeen,” Peeta assures her. “Just a little dizzy, is all.”

Prim puts a hand on his arm and leads him straight past me into the kitchen. As they pass, I catch the scent of cinnamon and something else I can’t place. A warm and inviting smell, like the first clear morning after a rain storm. 

I don’t follow them out of the room, only listening from my place against the doorframe. Peeta thanks Prim again for her help, and Prim tells him she’s so excited about the raisin bread he’s left us.  
“See you tomorrow!” she exclaims from the front door. I turn my neck to watch Peeta waving from our front porch before walking off into the darkness. Prim waves and closes the door, locking it and securing it with the bolt I installed. 

“What do you mean, see you tomorrow?” I question. I push myself off the frame and head back into the kitchen, stifling a yawn on my way.

“That’s what I needed to talk to you about,” Mother's voice calls from behind me. I can hear her feeding the scraps of bloody cotton to the fire, the flames lapping at them hungrily.

“There was a Capitol announcement while you were gone,” she says. Her voice is steady, but there’s an uneasiness that boils just below the surface. 

The Capitol, and President Snow, who rules Panem from its centre, have been virtually non-existent in the lives of the District Twelve citizens for years. The Capitol used to broadcast weekly televised announcements during the first waves of the virus, normally a pre-recorded statement assuring the citizens of Panem that they had everything under control. Those statements slowly regressed from weekly to monthly, always with the same message, until eventually they all but stopped entirely. The last time I ever saw a live statement was nine years ago, when President Snow appeared on our Capitol-issued television screen, to announce the country-wide cancellation of tesserae, our meager Government supply of monthly food rations. The explanation was that food was too scarce to provide for every family, so in fairness, they would be cut for everyone. I remember how angry my father was, ranting about how the Capitol had left us to die on our own. He used words I'd never heard him say before, and my mother had ushered Prim and I to bed early. My father took me out on my first hunting lesson the very next morning, promising me that he would never let us be dependent on anyone but ourselves again. It was the first time I had been beyond the security fence, and the first time I'd ever seen my father kill a monster. 

“What was the announcement?” I ask my mother. I peer across the kitchen to Prim, but she merely shrugs.

“It was more of an announcement of an announcement,” she says. I raise my eyebrows at my sister and look to my mother for an explanation. 

She rises from her kneeled position in front of the mantle, brushing off her knees and peeling off her gloves. In the glow of the fire, my mother's face almost shows her true beauty. In the soft light, her worry lines nearly disappear, and the far-away look in her eyes that only leaves when she’s with a patient hasn’t yet returned. It's easy in this moment to see just how alike her and Prim are, in physicality as much as interests. 

“There's a live statement in the town square tomorrow morning,” she says. “They didn’t say what for. Training and school are cancelled for you two. If you're hunting tomorrow, Katniss, you need to be back early. You’ll need to look presentable. There’s bound to be cameras.”

“Okay,” I shrug. I don’t bother arguing. There’s a prideful streak that has always run through my mother. I imagine it has to do with her merchant up-bringing. I only hope that the snares Gale and I set this morning won’t be poached by larger animals by tomorrow. We've brought in enough game lately to keep both our families fed, but I was hoping to stock up as much as we can before Winter really hits us. 

“Do you think they’ve found a cure?” Prim asks, her eyes round. She still has so much hope, my little sister. I’d given up any pretending that there was a fix to any of this a long time ago. With over a decade's experience in fighting the dead, the people in Twelve have quietly and stoically survived, but not without great loss and resentment. The words of my father circle around my brain again: they left us to die on our own. Even if a cure had been found, would the Capitol even bother to take it as far as here? And even if they did, how many more of our people have to die before they do?

“I suppose we'll find out tomorrow, my love,” Mother answers. “Now, wash up and finish with your schoolwork before bed.”

I excuse myself once Prim is settled at the kitchen table, kissing her on the forehead and waving good night to my mother. The ache in my back is even more insistent, and I’m not looking forward to using a bow with my crushed fingers tomorrow. The news about the announcement has only added another layer of tension to my stretched nerves. I’ve never known the Capitol to share good news and I don’t see any reason why they’d start now. I soothe myself with the knowledge that whatever is coming, this community has handled worse and lived to tell the tale.

On my way to our single bedroom, I see something glinting out of the corner of my eye. A single black glove lays on the threadbare mat in the entranceway, a silver fastener reflecting the moonlight from the front window. It’s far too large (and far too expensive looking) to be Prim's, and I’ve never seen Mother wear something like this. As I bend to pick it up, I catch another soft hint of cinnamon. Peeta must have dropped it on his way out. I run my fingers across the stitching of the supple leather and over the silver button at the wrist. The leather is worn and well-used, but it still looks like the most expensive piece of clothing I’ve ever touched. I carry the glove back to the bedroom, placing it on top of our shared dresser before finally dropping heavily into bed. Prim did say she'd see him tomorrow. I’ll remind her to bring the glove for him then. 

I had expected to fall into an immediate slumber, pain notwithstanding, but instead I lay with my face in the pillow, cycling through the events of the day. This morning's hunt had been mostly unsuccessful, save for a single skinny rabbit Gale's snare had caught. Training was uneventful, but I grimace when I think about the extra miles our trainer will make us run to make up for tomorrow's missed time. I try forcing my mind to skip over the image of the charred corpses I burned this evening. Instead, the face of the undead woman in the sundress swims before my closed eyes. Her teeth gnash at me, eyes glowing in the darkness of my mind. I’m transfixed by her lifeless stare again, and it takes me too long to realise that her face has morphed. I’m looking into my own eyes now. A dead, terrifying version of myself swings out at me, fingernails turned into claws searching for blood. I jump back, startling myself awake. I don’t know when the conscious thoughts slipped into dreams, but the lack of warmth beside me says that Prim has not yet been sent to bed. I’m grateful, for I know my nightmares and the things I mutter in my sleep worry her. 

I roll onto my side and breathe out deeply, my back cracking in the process. I find myself staring at the glove on the dresser and unwittingly start to think about it’s owner. I should have offered to walk Peeta home, or at least out of the Seam. There’s really no more danger here than there is in his part of the district, but I saw the way he stumbled earlier. Getting turned around in these streets isn’t impossible if you don’t know the area and your head isn’t on right. I tell myself he must have made it home just fine, he is a member of the military now after all. Still, that sense of debt I’ve held onto for years hasn’t loosened its grip any.

Peeta and I have at least known of each other since childhood, ending up in the same classes all throughout grade school. I had never considered us friends, but I’ve always remembered him as a kind boy. I hadn’t ever taken any more notice of him until the day, by some miracle, he happened to notice me.

I was eleven, freshly bitten, and entirely out of hope. I’d just been let out of quarantine three days before, declared “safe” to the community, but still wild and angry and unaware of what it meant to be immune to the virus. My home situation did nothing to better my temperament. My father was dead, his body lost to the monsters. My mother may as well have been, having not once left her bed since my return. My poor sister had been left alone, so weak and helpless she could barely speak. Our last reserves of food were gone. I had summoned up all of my courage that morning to brave the Hob, the district's black market, with a mind to trade anything I could for food. The problem was, immunity to the virus grants you a certain infamy with the community, but not a whole lot of friendliness. My bite-mark, still healing and raw, drew a lot of nervous stares. There was still an aura of danger around me, like the virus was just extremely slow-moving and still contagious. I had completed the circuit of booths in the Hob three times, Prim's baby clothes clutched tightly in my hands, before giving up and walking home empty-handed. Quarantine and the effects of the virus, paired with a lack of nutrients I'd never truly experienced before, had left me with the kind of tiredness no child should ever have to feel. The only thing keeping me up-right was the thought of Prim, with those sunken-in cheeks and eyes full of tears. With her tiny face in the forefront of my mind, I lost all pretense of dignity and, with the last of my strength, made it to the merchant square and more specifically, their trash bins. 

Times were tough for everyone in the district, but I was hoping that the pride of the merchant class would allow for more stale goods to be thrown out instead of sold. A heavy rain had started to fall, and I had hoped the sound of the raindrops pummelling the tin roofs would disguise my noise as I flitted from one back door to the next. The more empty bins I encountered, the more angry I got. I could feel a sharp heat coursing through me, starting at my mangled wrist. By the time I reached the bakery, with the tantalizing scent of warm bread wafting through the window, my mouth was watering and I was already half in a frenzy. No longer bothering to keep quiet, I ripped the lid of the trash bin off and threw it down beside me. Empty. Not even a crumb. I howled in frustration, kicking the bin over and pulling at my sopping wet hair. I didn’t even notice the back door flying open, until the vile woman known as the baker's wife was almost right on top of me. 

“Filthy looter!” she had screeched. “I’ll have none of that in my own back yard!” 

She held a heavy rolling pin in her hand, but her contorted face was scarier by far. I froze, stomach leaden with panic. Looters were punishable by fifty lashes from a peace keeper. As I stood statue-still in front of the woman, I felt another white-hot surge race up my arm. It warmed my chest and killed my fear, and before I could understand what was happening, my feet had sprung forward, arms raised to pull her to the ground. I felt invincible, utterly limitless in the kind of pain I could make her feel. She stumbled back, caught off guard, and swung the rolling pin wildly. It made contact with my wrist, sending a blinding crack of pain up to my elbow. The pain threw me out of my trance, and before another swing came my way, I bolted back out into the alley. 

I could still hear the baker's wife screaming a street away, but I was too exhausted to run any further. My wrist was on fire and I could barely breathe. I collapsed under a willow tree, hugging my knees to my chest and shivering violently. The fleeting invincibility I had felt was drowned out immediately by an overwhelming sea of guilt. I was a monster. I could, and would have, killed that woman. Vile or not, she didn’t deserve death. I wasn’t a killer. I was just a child. And yet, the virus had made it very clear that it wanted her blood on my hands. What if that had been Prim? Or Mother? I was so angry at my mother for leaving us on our own. Could I become so angry that I would make Prim a true orphan? 

I stayed under the willow tree for what seemed like hours. I couldn’t go home to face Prim with nothing to show for my trouble. I had lost. I had failed. We were going to die and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I hung my head and did the one thing I hated most in the world: I cried. Huge, body-wracking sobs that even the relentless rain couldn’t muffle. The words ‘I am a monster' left my lips more times than I could count. When I heard the footsteps, I couldn’t even say I was surprised. Of course they would send someone after me. I was dangerous, a threat to the community, immune or not. I was going to be hung in the town square and Prim would be left to suffer alone. I shifted closer to the trunk of the tree, but I didn’t bother lifting my head. 

Instead of a rough arm grabbing me through the branches, I heard a soft thud on the ground beside me. I lifted my head a fraction and was convinced my hunger was causing me to hallucinate. There on the ground, still steaming, were two loaves of bread. They were burnt almost black, but they still smelled good enough to make my mouth water. 

“I don’t think you’re a monster,” a soft voice had said from above me. Through the willow branches, I could just make out the blurry outline of the kind baker's son, Peeta. Even through the rain, a bright pink patch of skin was visible under his puffy eye. It looked like he had been crying. I opened my mouth to call out to him, but found I was rendered speechless. I snatched the loaves of bread up, protecting them from the rain under my coat. By the time I looked up again, Peeta was already running back down the alley, feet splashing through puddles. 

The exhaustion didn’t disappear, but it released its hold enough to let me race back home as fast as my legs could carry me. I remember throwing open the door and watching Prim's face light up when she saw my prize. Even my mother had left her bed to see what the commotion was about. I had cut a loaf up in a flourish, and it had taken all of my self-restraint to make us both eat it slowly. As I watched my sister come back to life before my eyes, I was brimming with a new determination. I would never let my family go hungry again. I was not going to let us lay down and die. Two days later, I had caught my first rabbit with my father's bow. 

I found myself looking for Peeta in the hallways at school in the days following. Nothing had ever come of the incident with his mother, and he had never tried to talk to me about his gift. I had thought about reaching out to him to thank him so many times, but the timing had never been right. After a while, the window for ‘thank you' had passed, and I doubted whether Peeta even remembered the bread. But I never forgot. How could I? Without him, I may never have had the chance to watch my sister grow up. The obligation I feel to return his favour has never left me. Maybe returning the glove is a pitiful first start. 

I feel Prim slip into bed beside me just as I start to drift off again. She curls into my back, searching for warmth. I wonder how long it will be before she climbs into our mother's bed instead, as she often does when she’s anxious about something. My last thought before falling back asleep is that I yearn for my sister to be right in being so hopeful. I hope the announcement tomorrow brings us something other than hardship, because we've all had enough of that for a lifetime.


	3. The Announcement

Dawn comes much more quickly than I would have preferred, the early morning sun nudging me awake. I lay in bed for a few minutes, listening to the even breathing of my mother and sister and the lone call of a single bird outside the window. Eventually, I slip out from beneath the covers and dress quickly in the semi-darkness, careful not to wake the other two. I step lightly out into our hallway, closing the bedroom door as gently as I can.

On the kitchen table is a paper bag, ‘For Katniss and Gale' scrawled across it in Prim's neat handwriting. I smile and take a peek inside – four fat slices of raisin bread. I roll the bag back up and stuff it in my game bag before lacing up my boots and heading out into the brisk morning.

Gale is sitting on our front steps, still puffy-eyed and half-asleep. I imagine the news about the Capitol announcement later today makes him just as uneasy as I am. We greet each other quietly, then let the silence of the early morning take over. We walk mutely towards the area beyond the meadow to the eastern security fence gate. With work, training and school cancelled, we’re the only ones out this early. It almost feels comforting to be alone. It definitely beats bargaining with a peace keeper. There's an unspoken ‘don’t-ask-don't-tell' policy surrounding the topic of hunting in this district. Like most things we have to do to survive, it’s an illegal offence, punishable by lashes or time in the jail cell. Luckily, Gale and I have found the right people to trade with over the years, and I’ve learned that even the more stringent peace keepers can turn the other cheek in exchange for a fat squirrel.

When we reach the gate, we drop our game bags and begin the first step of our process: damage control. With a blade in each of our hands, Gale and I quickly disperse of the few undead bodies meandering around the fence line. We take turns shaking the fence and calling attention to ourselves, while the other drops the distracted monster with a quick jab through the chain link. With every downed monster, my blood quickens and I feel more alive with every slice. When the bodies lay still before us and the growling and snarls have ceased, both of us stand still for a few minutes longer, waiting for the noise of any stragglers. The only sounds I can hear are our heartbeats, so I know we’re safe for now. Gale unties his bag and pulls the rusty gate key from an inside pocket. He'd stolen it a few years ago from the office of our previous trainer, a crime almost certainly punishable by hanging, had the trainer not been so sure he’d lost the key himself in a drunken stupor. Gale had laughed himself hoarse at my shocked expression when he had shown me, and only told me to thank him later when my game bag was full. Danger has never seemed like an issue to Gale. I often wonder if it’s his greatest strength or his biggest weakness. I have to admit, entering the wilderness through the gate does beat our old method of crawling through the shallow holes we had to dig under the fence. 

With the gate opened, I sprint to the thicker pocket of trees clustered a few hundred feet away. My eyes and ears are on high alert for any movement but I don’t see anything, living or dead. I duck into the cover of the greenery and immediately stick my arm into a hollowed-out log near the entrance to the forest. I pull my bow and quiver out, brushing off pine needles and checking my arrows. Weapons aren’t illegal, for obvious reasons, but I feel safer keeping my bow out here, where it can’t be stolen by a looter or confiscated by a testy guard. 

Gale follows me into the forest, his own bow hanging at his side. 

“Start with the snares, first?” he asks. I nod, pulling out the paper bag from Prim.

“Mhm. But first, breakfast,” I say. Gale arches an eyebrow and hums appreciatively when he sticks a hand in the bag. He pulls out a slice of the bread and throws the rest to me.

“Damn, Katnip,” he exclaims with a full mouth, “where did this come from?” 

“The Mellarks,” I answer, tearing into my own piece. I close my eyes in delight at the burst of flavour. “Peeta had a head wound, came to see my mother.”

Gale's face darkens a little, his chewing slowing down. 

“What happened?” he asks once he swallows. His voice doesn’t reveal a hint of sympathy. 

“Don’t know, didn’t ask,” I shrug. Maybe I should have. It hadn’t even occurred to me last night to ask what had caused Peeta's injury, or if anyone else had been hurt. Perhaps this was the lack of bedside manners Prim always chides me about.

“Hmm,” Gale muses, already grabbing for his second slice of bread. “Shame. Wonder if the Baker's boy knows anything about the announcement today.”

“If he does, he didn’t tell me,” I mumble in between bites. I pick at the bark on a nearby tree branch. Talking about Peeta to Gale feels uncomfortable, like a forbidden topic. The last thing I need this morning is a repeat of our fight from yesterday. Gale seems to notice my fidgeting and abruptly moves the conversation along.

“So, what do you think it’s for?” he asks, wiping crumbs off his front.

I shrug again, and snort when I remember the conversation with my sister last night. 

“Prim's hoping they found a cure,” I say. “I don’t think it really matters. Whatever it is, probably won’t change life here much. I bet it’s an engagement announcement from the President or something.”

My attempt at a joke falls flat. My unconvincing delivery only seems to be half the reason why. Gale huffs out a breath and stays silent. There’s been rumours circulating for a while that the Capitol is fairing much better with the pandemic than the districts. Most of it is strictly hearsay, as contact between districts is nearly impossible with our lack of communication equipment. The only things I know about any other district or the Capitol itself I’ve learned from mandated school courses. It stands to reason though, that the centre of the country, where the richest and most prominent citizens reside, has the ability to live a nearly-normal life, whereas the rest of us can barely scrape by.

Gale sighs, staring out into the trees from his place on a stump. 

“Ma’s been beside herself since the news. She’s all worked up, thinkin’ they’re bringing back the Games.”

The Hunger Games – a distant, horrific memory in the back of my mind. I was only six when they were cancelled indefinitely, too young to be reaped or to really understand what that meant. Mother had never let me watch the live broadcasts when they were still on-going, but Father had watched them intensely every year, silent and stone-faced in his armchair. Eventually, I learned about them in school, even had to sit through a taped recording of a full set of games, but it had always seemed like a distant, barbaric part of our country's history. Forcing children from every district to fight to the death under the guise of ‘keeping the peace' with the Capitol seems so nonsensical that it’s almost humorous. I could never understand why the people didn’t push back or revolt. I had tried to ask my mother about it once, but she had just stroked my hair and told me that she was happy it was something I would never need to know. 

“That’s ridiculous,” I tell Gale. “They cancelled the games because of the virus, and that definitely didn’t just disappear. We've lost enough children as is. The Capitol doesn’t care about us, but I don’t think they’re that evil.”

“You try telling her that,” he says, clearly exasperated. “You know how it is with everyone her age.”

I do know how it is. The Hunger Games have left wounds on the older generation of Twelve that refuse to heal. Many won’t even talk about them at all, but the few that do, usually on late nights after many drinks, tell tales that make me wonder if the virus wasn’t a strange blessing in it’s own way. As Greasy Sae, the matronly resident cook in the Hob says, at least we can fight back against this.

“It'll be fine,” I soothe Gale, “let your mother worry for another couple hours. When it turns out that whatever this is has nothing to do with the Hunger Games, we can laugh about it.”

“Yeah, guess you’re right,” he concedes, and stands from his stump. “Let’s get to it, then. I’d like to see these bags at least half full by the time we're done.”

We spend the rest of our morning in the quiet mindfulness that only hunting can bring. Out here, beyond the fence, is the only place where I can ever really feel at peace. My scar doesn’t burn and I barely feel the pain in my hand. The worry I constantly feel in my gut lays dormant for these few hours. Even when we inevitably run into more of the undead, the virus stays quiet and controlled when my knife brings them down. I’m only marginally disappointed when Gale whistles, his signal that we’re out of time. I’m out of arrows, each one exchanged for a warm animal in my game bag. 

I hide my bow again and reach the security gate at the same time as Gale, who grins when he shows me his kills. We did well today, well enough that we can trade some of the meat for other essentials. I’m in a good mood, wondering if getting Prim a birthday present is now a possibility, when my eyes fall on the line of people shuffling down the road from the other side of the field. I hold a hand up over my eyes and stare at the watery sun. It’s high in the sky – too high. We’ve been out far too long. We’re running late for the announcement. I shift my game bag on my shoulder anxiously. All these people. No peace keeper could turn a blind eye to our contraband with that many witnesses. 

Gale seems to be thinking the same thing. He reaches out for my bag. 

“You go on. I’ll stash these out here for now. It’s cold enough, they’ll keep ‘til dark. We'll come get them when it’s over.”

It’s a risky move, leaving the fruits of our labour out in the wilderness unattended, but it’s no more risky than showing them off on Main street. I throw my bag to Gale, tell him I'll find him in the town square, and bolt across the meadow. I manoeuvre my way through the crowd, trying to slip past in the opposite direction towards home. I've lost any time I had to make myself presentable, but I can at least change out of my hunting clothes if I’m quick enough.

I reach my front door just as Prim bursts through from the other side. She’s dressed in her best clothes – a plain blue skirt and white button up blouse. The blouse, originally my mother's, hangs too big on her little frame, but she’s tried to tuck it in in an effort to make it look like it fits.

“Katniss!” she cries, “There you are! We have to go!”

“I said to be back early,” my mother admonishes, passing through the door behind Prim.

“I know, Mother. I’m sorry,” I say, my cheeks flushing under her disappointed stare. I know telling her about our full game bags won’t make a difference. My mother knows how vital hunting is to our survival, but she’ll always put appearances first. 

“Prim and I can’t wait any longer or we'll all be late,” she says. “I’ve put a dress out on the bed for you, it should fit you now. Change quickly and meet us in the square.”

I nod and hurry into the house, not even bothering to kick off my boots in the hall. I reach the bedroom, where a dress is indeed laid out for me on the bed. It’s a pale blue, with short lacy sleeves and buttons down the front. One of Mother's favourites. It’s pretty and delicate and nothing like me. I huff indignantly at such an impractical garment, but I don’t have time to find anything else fitting to wear. I peel off my hunting clothes and throw it over my head, struggling with the buttons and trying not to rip the dainty fabric. When I’m finished, I steal a quick look at myself in the tarnished mirror above the dresser.

Pretty dress or not, I still look wild. Sweaty strands of hair have escaped from my braid. There’s dirt smudged across my face. Dried blood is crusted under my fingernails and streaked up my arms. I am every bit of the Seam child my mother wanted to hide today. I swipe at the dirt on my face, but there’s no time to really fix my appearance. I turn to leave, bracing myself for whispered criticism, when I notice Peeta's glove still lying there on the dresser. I’ve completely forgotten to tell Prim to grab it.

I snatch the thing on my way out of the bedroom, intending to hand it off to Prim when I find her so that she can do the honours. I’m too rushed to even think about waiting until Peeta returns here next week for his stitches. Besides, it’s getting colder every day, and it seems important somehow that it’s back in his his possession sooner rather than later. One less debt to pay. 

I throw the front door open and curse when I see the light drizzle that has started to fall. I reach behind me and grab my father's old hunting jacket (my only coat, despite how large it is), throw it around my shoulders, and start off towards the centre of town.

I’m not the last to reach the gathering spot, but by the time I get there, out of breath and even more sweaty than before, I can tell it will be more than difficult to find my family. The virus may have thinned out our population by nearly half, but it’s been a very long time since I’ve seen so many people clustered so closely together. I scan the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of twin blonde braids or the towering frame of Gale. I don't, but what I do see doesn’t bode well. A long row of peace keepers stand in formation in front of the makeshift podium that’s been shoddily thrown together at the head of the square. I’m sure there’s more white-uniformed men in that line then I’ve ever seen in District Twelve. Even with their masked faces, the way they stand, so formal and unmoving, gives them away as strangers. My stomach twists itself in uncomfortable knots and I push myself forward through the crowd.

I wind my way deeper to the front, apologizing for stepping on feet and keeping one eye on the peace keepers. I see the back of a blond-haired child and move as quickly as I can in that direction. The nervous chatter and shifting bodies all around me have me on edge, and my scar pulses as if the virus is letting me know it senses the bodies too. I reach my target and am met with disappointment when I realize that it’s not my sister, but another young girl. She jumps and shrieks when I grab her shoulder, her brown eyes wide and alarmed. I apologize and pull away, eyes moving beyond her in search of a familiar face. I hit something warm and solid as I try to back-pedal, knocking the wind out of me. Two hands reach out to grab my arms and hold me steady. I spin around, wrenching myself out of their grasp and automatically preparing for a fight. Instead, I’m face to face with Peeta Mellark.

“Katniss, hey!” he exclaims. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.” He smiles reassuringly, but the lines are tight in his face. His cheeks are steadily becoming more rosy. I don’t comment on it being my fault that we collided. 

“Hey, have you seen Prim?” I ask, eyes darting over the faces around us. Peeta cranes his neck and looks around, too. When he turns his head, I notice a purple bruise spreading over his cheekbone. I don’t remember it being there last night. 

“No, I’m sorry, I don't,” he says. “I could help you look-” 

“No, it’s fine. Thanks,” I cut him off. On the off-chance I find Gale first, I don’t want to have to explain the extra help.

“What's a prim?” a high voice asks from my right. A pale, round-faced girl smiles at me from beside Peeta. I recognize her from school. Her name is Delly, I think. 

“Katniss's little sister,” Peeta answers before I can open my mouth. 

“Oh no!” Delly cries, her hands flying to her mouth. “Is she lost?” 

“No,” I answer curtly. I'm running out of patience, and time. The announcement’s bound to start at any moment. 

“Oh…okay,” Delly says, twisting a pigtail nervously around her finger. I feel a twinge of guilt at her reaction, but I’m saved from an awkward apology by the sound of my name.

“Katniss! Over here!” I turn to see Gale standing a few feet over from us, one arm raised above his head. Prim waves enthusiastically beside him, my mother and Gale's family clustered behind. I wave back and my feet move in their direction, forgetting to say good-bye to Peeta and Delly altogether. 

“Bye, Katniss!” Delly shouts from behind me. I stick my arm up, not looking back, and realize that I’m still holding onto Peeta's leather glove. I hesitate for just a moment before turning back around. 

“Peeta!” I call. He looks mildly shocked at the sound of his name on my lips. 

“You dropped this last night,” I say, tossing the glove over the crowd at him. It sails over heads and into his outstretched hand. He stares at it with wide eyes, his other hand moving up to gingerly press the bruise on his face. Delly giggles and the look she gives Peeta makes me regret my word choice. Rumours fly fast in a district with so little to entertain the masses. 

Peeta's cheeks burn brighter and he stutters a thank-you while elbowing his friend into silence. I offer a small smile in acknowledgement and make my way back over to Gale and Prim.

“What was that?” Gale asks immediately. He stares over my head at the direction from which I came. 

“Nothing, just looking for you,” I say. Technically, it’s not a lie. Gale gives me a strange look but thankfully drops the subject.

“You look nice,” he smirks, looking me up and down. He of all people knows how much I detest dresses and looking ‘nice.’

“Shut up,” I mutter, “At least I changed clothes. You still smell like a squirrel.”

Gale opens his mouth to retort, but Prim chooses that moment to grab my injured hand and pull, making me grit my teeth and suck in a painful breath.

“Stop bickering, you two. It’s about to start!” 

Above the sea of people, two giant screens flash to life, the signal of Panem displayed on each. I wonder how they’re even functional with our lack of electricity, and with a jolt of anger I realize that the Capitol likely made a special exception and resumed the power remotely for today. If only they were this charitable at any other time.

The screens flash white, the emblems disappearing, and a hush falls over the crowd as the national anthem begins to play. A female voice with the strange, lilting Capitol accent replaces the music, reading out the words that appear in bold black letters on the screen. 

“Attention, citizens of Panem. The following Presidential message is considered to be mandatory viewing in every district across the nation. Any person not on active defence duty found to have knowingly refused to present themselves for the announcement viewing will be punished accordingly. President Cornelius Snow will address the nation in five minutes’ time. Thank you.”

The silence that follows is so ripe with tension that I can taste it. I immediately look to the peace keepers, still stoic as ever. I have the sudden urge to pick Prim up and run. Something about this feels wrong, like we're a bunch of livestock being led into a trap. I squeeze my hands into fists and focus on my breathing, using every ounce of my willpower to keep the virus effects at bay. 

“Some engagement announcement,” Gale whispers into my ear, nearly causing me to cry out in surprise. He says it as a joke, but his tone implies that he’s expecting something much more serious than that. I don’t blame him. The five minutes before the President appears on the screen simultaneously feels like the longest and shortest stretch of time I’ve ever experienced. 

When he does show face, I can only describe my emotion as perplexed. The screens above us fade into a double view of an incredibly plush room. Bookcases filled with leather-bound pages line the background, while a beautifully crafted wooden desk fills the bottom half of the frame. Sitting behind it, wearing a puffy lipped smile that does not meet his cold eyes, sits President Snow. He sits stiffly, holding his thin frame pin straight. He’s dressed in a crisp white suit tailored to perfection. In the lapel sits a single white rose. He looks calm, serene even, but there’s a sickly tint to the skin that hangs off his face like paper, and the hands that rest lightly on the desktop are veiny and mottled with age spots. I'm starkly reminded of the monsters outside the fence. 

“Good morning, citizens of Panem,” he says into the camera. His voice is soft, but I can’t deny the authority it carries.

“Today marks a momentous occasion. For over a decade, our country has faced unprecedented hardship and strife, the likes of which have not seen since the failed rebellion and the Dark Days that followed.”

There’s a slight inflection on the word ‘failed,’ and it causes a ruffle in some of the older folk around us. It’s a clever jab, meant to remind the people of their place.

“However, we have persevered and we have conquered. We have suffered great losses, yes. My condolences to all who have lost loved ones during these turbulent times.” Snow bows his head for a moment of silence. I bristle at his word choice. Turbulent. As if a lethal virus is nothing but an annoying inconvenience. Again, my father's words echo in my head. The blood of many of those loved ones are on this man's hands. 

“Please know, the Capitol has been working tirelessly to find a way to bring peace and prosperity back to our great nation of Panem,” Snow says. “I have curated a highly skilled team of the most powerful minds in the country. They have been developing and formulating medicine far more advanced than ever seen before.”

Beside me, Prim gasps. I look down to see her nearly vibrating, eyes wide as saucers. I know exactly what she’s thinking and my heart breaks for her. The President's words sound assuring, but I’m firm in my belief that a cure is too good to be real. And yet, Prim's energy seems to radiate from around her. Gale crosses his arms in a guarded fashion, clearly struggling not to show too much optimism. My mother pats her hair down and holds her breath. Even I begin to feel a bubble of hope, small and fragile, start to take form in my stomach. 

“And thus, it is with great pleasure,” the President continues after a pause, “that I am able to announce that a viable vaccine has been created for the virus that had plagued our nation for far too long.”

The crowd erupts, cheers and shocked voices sending startled birds into the sky. Prim screams and clings to me, jumping up and down. My mother has tears in her eyes. I don’t believe it. A vaccine. A cure. The little bubble of hope rises up into my chest, daring to grow bigger. I suddenly feel lighter, like the virus has loosened it's grip on me in its shock. It’s not a cure for people like me; I’ll always have to deal with the side effects, but my family will be safe from infection. As long as the fences hold, the undead will eventually starve themselves out, and the virus will cease to exist. I can almost start to see a future without fear. 

I turn behind me to celebrate with Gale. I expect to see a disbelieving grin or a mouth hung open in shock. Instead, his eyes are hard and steely. He’s staring up ahead at the line of peace keepers watching over us. I nudge his arm and raise an eyebrow.

“Something's not right,” he murmurs. “If it's all good news, why are they here?” 

That bubble of hope clings desperately to my ribcage for survival. I agree with Gale, and the urge to pull our families away from here comes back with full force. I want so badly for this to be the beginning of the recovery we so desperately need, but I know Gale sees what I’ve been trying not to. The peace keepers. Their guns. Their power. They’ve been sent here to keep control, and that can only mean the Capitol expects us to get angry. I take a deep breath, nod at Gale to signify that I’m on alert, and turn back to face the giant screens. 

President Snow has risen from his seat and now stands at full attention in front of his supremely polished desk. His hands are clasped neatly in front of him. He coughs delicately before continuing his speech, as if he’s standing before us and is waiting for the noise to dissipate. 

“This may be the greatest accomplishment of the Capitol to date. After years of testing, we are now confident in saying that this vaccine is highly effective against the violent and deadly effects of the virus. It has been a painstakingly slow process, but will be the most necessary first step on the road back to normality.” 

My eyes flick back and forth between the screen and the soldiers. Do they look less composed than they did before, or am I the one slowly losing my control? The president coughs again, holding a white handkerchief to his mouth. I swear I see a spot of blood on it when he pulls it away, but I can’t be sure I’m not imagining things in my current state. 

“That being said,” he says, his voice turning somber, “I must admit that the process of producing the vaccine is a long one. My advisors assure me that no more than one thousand doses will be available for distribution before next Winter.”

Prim deflates beside me. One thousand doses. That's barely enough to cover our own district, and from what I know of the other eleven, we're a sparse population. I’ve already deduced that we’re very low on the list of recipients, and it looks like I’m not the only one. There’s a few disappointed shouts from the crowd, and a child in front of me starts to cry. Perhaps this is why they brought in extra security. Knowing that a vaccine is available and yet still unattainable is a hard pill to swallow. The disappointment is measurable in the air, but there’s no real surprise. Our district is used to being left until last. Still, I squeeze Prim's hand reassuringly and bend down so she can hear me.

“It’s okay, Little Duck. We've survived on our own for this long, what’s another couple of years? We know there’s an end to it now. It's still good news.”

She squeezes my hand back and nods up at me bravely. My little sister may be a grown woman by the time she gets her dose, but I'll make damn sure she'll still be healthy and happy when it arrives. That sense of hope glimmers as brightly as I’ve ever let it, the bubble stretching out and enveloping my chest. For the first time, I have a plan. A solid plan that ends with my family safe and sound and living without constant fear. A burst of laughter escapes me, and for once I don’t feel ashamed about it. For one shining moment, all I feel is relief. 

One moment. That’s all I get. Because the next words out of the president's mouth cause my bubble of hope to shatter into a million razor-sharp pieces.

“With that in mind, I have one more very special announcement to make. In the spirit of fairness, and in an effort to return to normality, the Capitol has decided to leave the choice of which district receives the vaccine first up to you, the people. And so, I am very pleased to announce the official re-installation of the Hunger Games.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave some critiques if you're into it. I can't get better without comment. :)


	4. The Breach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got the next chapter up quicker than I thought! Hope you enjoy! (Warning for blood and gore in this one!)

I manage to make it through the rest of the president's speech, though his words are lost in the chorus of protests and anguished cries around me. I don’t hear him announce that the rules of the game will remain as they always have: two tributes from each district will be picked to fight to the death with all the others in a nationally broadcasted event. I don’t hear him explain that the winner's district will receive the first doses of the vaccine, and that the games will continue on as normal after every district has been inoculated. I don’t hear him tell every family that they have just three days to prepare for the possibility of never seeing their child again. The only words that manage to penetrate my stupefied mind are his last: ‘May the odds be ever in your favour.’

The giant screens go dark, but not before a bottle smashes into one of them, sending glass and sparks flying. The screen splinters like spider webs, causing a distorted broken-mirror effect on the president's smiling face until he fades from view. A powerful yearning to create the same effect on his real face overcomes me, and it seems I’m not the only one.

“You fucking cowards!” a strangled voice screams above the rest of the commotion. My neck snaps in its direction. Haymitch Abernathy, the district's only living victor of the Hunger Games, struggles against two peace keepers, screaming profanities and lashing out as he’s dragged through the crowd. 

“How dare you?” He growls in a drunken slur. “You fucking liars! You know damn well what you’re doing!”

His outburst earns him a fist to his nose and a knee to his groin. He doubles over, spluttering and cursing. A vague memory from school surfaces as I watch him struggle. As the lone victor, it will be Haymitch's duty to mentor the two tributes from our district. As there hasn’t been a surviving tribute from district twelve in over twenty years, I don’t question his explosive anger. He'll have a front-row seat to the carnage he thought he was free from. 

With great effort, I resist the urge to advance towards the scuffle. Haymitch Abernathy may be a reclusive, irritable drunk, but he's not wrong. The injustice of it all is maddening. They’ve brought back the Hunger Games when survival is hardly sustainable as it is. Two families will have to watch their children die. I have no delusions about our tributes' chances, whoever the poor souls are. Every single person standing in this crowd has been affected by the pandemic. We're weak, starving, helpless. If Prim is reaped, there’s no way I can protect her. She will die in that arena, and I’ll be forced to watch it happen. The colour of my vision starts to blend with the blood pouring from Haymitch's nose. The virus leaps at the chance to sate its hunger with violence. I'm taking my first step forward when a scared voice cuts through my haze.

“Katniss, please! You’re hurting me!” 

I look down to see Prim scrabbling at my hand, her fingers trapped in my iron tight fist. The look of fear in her eyes is one I had never, ever wanted to see directed at me. I release her hand at once, and she stumbles backwards into my mother, who is staring at the blank screens above us like she’s seen a ghost. 

I turn behind me to find an anchor in Gale, but he’s too distracted, wrangling his crying siblings and his own mother who looks like she may pass out. The crowd surges around us, egged on by Haymitch's bottle and the growing panic in the air. An elbow digs into my back. A shoulder jostles me sideways. Everyone is too close, too loud, too angry. Gale catches my eye, sees the signs of an impending episode, and shouts at me to go. When the peace keepers fire their first warning shots, I’m already halfway to the meadow.

By the time I hit the fence, my vision has become so blurred that I nearly run right into it. I can't breathe. My lungs are on fire. The burn rips right through the rest of my system, rendering me entirely incoherent. The virus has total control. 

I don’t remember climbing the fence or racing through the trees. I don’t remember grabbing my bow or slinging arrow after arrow into any moving object I see. I don’t know if anyone followed me out here or if I’ve been alone in my attack of the undead that came running. There’s a blank space where my memory of this should be. All I know is that when the colours of the forest fade from red to green again, my hands are shredded and bloody, the skirt of my mother's dress is ripped beyond repair, and I am alone in the wild.

I take deep, steadying breaths and turn in a slow circle, trying to recognize my surroundings. Tall pine trees enclose me, sheltering me from the freezing rain. The forest is unusually quiet, not even a bird call. I wipe my smarting hands on the front of my ruined dress and try to stop them from shaking. The sky has turned a dismal grey, blocking out any efforts of the sun. I have no idea how long I’ve been out here, but I need to return home before the wrong people find me.

It’s a long, slow walk back to the district limits. My father's jacket does nothing to protect me from the cold, and I’m soaked through to my skin before long. Shaking violently and so, so tired, I wonder if climbing a tree and waiting until nightfall is a better idea. The shame that’s building inside of me makes a convincing argument of waiting to slip into bed unnoticed. The closer I get to the security fence, the more the shame grows. I hurt Prim, and then I abandoned her. My mother was not in any shape to get her home, and the crowd was only getting more restless when I left. I pick up my pace, praying that Gale, at least, held it together for the both of us. 

By the time I reach the security gate, I've resigned myself to digging a hole in the dirt to get back home. It will take ages, but I’m far too tired and hurt to attempt climbing again. I drop to all fours, hissing as my slashed hands work the earth. My ears are pricked for any sounds behind me, but the forest is still silent. The lack of noise starts to unnerve me. There's always a few straggling bodies looking for victims. If none of them are here, where did they go? 

A shrill cry suddenly breaks the silence, followed by three gunshots in quick succession. At once, alarm bells start ringing in my head. What did I leave behind? Were those gunshots only a warning for the rowdy residents, or for something else? I should have stayed, should have fought the effects, should have been there. How do I protect my family if can’t even be around them? What if something happened to Prim? 

I dig frantically into the wet earth under the fence, breaking more skin and bleeding freely into the mud. It doesn’t matter. The pain feels distant and foreign, and a small voice in the back of my mind pleads with me to calm down before I work myself into another frenzy. I dig faster, forcing terrifying images of thing I don’t want to see out of my head. Ashamed or not, I need to see for my own eyes that my family is safe. 

I’m still knee-deep in a mud puddle when I hear my name being called. It’s faint over the alarm bells that just won’t go away, but I stare wildly into the growing distance. I’m so drained and sick with worry that I don’t even know if the voice is real, until a lone figure sprints into view on the other side of the chain link.

“Katniss!” Gale races toward me from across the meadow. I can tell from here that something isn’t right. His voice is strained and he holds his right arm in an awkward way. He screams my name again over the pulsing sirens, and suddenly it clicks into place – the alarms are not just internal. 

“Katniss! Thank God! I thought-“ he stops short when he reaches me, our trusty key in hand. He jams it into the lock and wrenches it open with so much force it rattles the rest of the fence. Before I can ask him what’s going on, he’s pulled me up roughly by the shoulders and dragged me through the doorway. 

“We have to go,” he pants, “There’s been a breach. The guards need help.”

A security breach. The infected have gotten through the fence, and there’s enough of them that the guards on duty are having trouble. I would have thought this would turn me cold with dread, but instead, the first instinct I feel is a twisted sense of relief. The virus burns right through my chest, positively thrilled at another chance to take me over.

Gale loosens his grip on my shoulders slightly, asking me silently if he can trust me enough to let me go. I give a tight nod and twist out from under him, ready to fly into action. The virus sings in my veins, already going mad with bloodlust. Gale locks the gate with shaking fingers and we throw ourselves in the direction of the centre of town. 

I push every other thought out of my head and focus on getting to the square. It's the only way to stay in control of the situation. The pain in my hands is non-existent. The worry has floated away. The noise of the alarm sirens melt away, leaving a strange, charged kind of silence. All that matters is getting to the fight in time to make a difference.

The unmistakable noises of combat greet us from blocks away. It doesn’t sound good. There’s no time to discuss tactics or ask about my family. Gale throws himself around the corner of a building just in front of me and skids to a stop. I follow suit, slipping my knife out from my boot in the process. The sun has just started to set on the district, and the dark red sky illuminates a gruesome scene. 

The smell hits me first. Blood. Fresh blood. It's intoxicating, exhilarating. Any hold I had on myself over the effects of the virus is quickly diminished. I let it take over, finally welcoming the burn. A blur of action calls my attention to the fence farthest away from us. From this far away, it's difficult to distinguish living opponents from dead ones. I'm propelled toward the scene by legs that move of their own accord. Gale follows close behind, kicking up gravel and shaking wet hair out of his eyes.

Heightened senses kick into overdrive. If there's anything positive to be said about my immunity, it's that it grants me the luxuries of advantages non-infected soldiers will never know. My dilated pupils pull in enough light to see what others can't. My sense of smell is so sharp I can tell who's near me by their sweat. I can hear the heartbeats, or lack thereof, of everyone in the near vicinity. My muscles tighten and ready themselves, all pain forgotten. My tongue darts out to lick my lips and I swear I can taste the apprehension in the air as I close in on the scene. 

It's a massacre. Bodies lay all around in the grass. Some are still moving - slowly, pathetically. The only light source is the retreating sun, and I'm grateful that it’s too dark to decipher if they’re friend or foe. A voice full of pain calls out from the ground as I pass. I ignore it. There’s no helping them now.

I survey the bloodbath before me through a red lens. Scanning the area, I count roughly three infected bodies for every healthy one. Goosebumps prickle my arms as the virus boils through me, choosing its next victim. A particularly erratic host makes the decision for me. Distracted by my sudden appearance, it lurches forward, past another body in a struggle with a heavily armoured soldier. I drop down, planting my feet and raising my weapon in a defensive stance. Lips curling up in a snarl, I take in as much of my opponent as I can before it reaches me. 

Huge and menacing, the thing towers over me, casting a shadow from five feet away. It moves slower than they usually do, furiously dragging a leg that sticks out from the knee socket at an awkward angle. Good. I'll have speed on my side. The shirt it wears has been ripped open, exposing jagged ribs and a spongy thing that I think may be a shriveled lung. I wonder if popping it will slow it down further.

The corpse heaves itself closer, reaching out with hands the size of dinner plates, desperate in its attempt to slaughter me. Torn fingernails, caked with dried blood, itch to bury themselves in my flesh. I stare up into yellowed eyes, glossy and vacant. Its skin is pallid, but not yet the mottled grey and paper-thin texture of aged hosts. This one hasn’t been infected for very long. Twin holes, oozing with the pus of infection, replace the spot where a nose should be. The tiny indents of teeth marks in the bridge above are only just visible. Sniffing reflexively, I feel only a dull twinge of pity. What an unfortunate way to go.

As the stench of decay grows stronger, I raise up onto the balls of my feet, poised to pounce. Just a little closer and I’ll be able to close the gap between my knife and its head in one well-aimed leap. The giant creature thrashes, painting me with splatters of blood and pus and tiny chunks of leftover cartilage. It sucks a breath in, air whistling through the exposed nasal cavities. Dark drool hangs in ropes from its lips, and I take my cue when they open to howl at me. 

A last ray of sunlight glints off the blade as I thrust myself into the air. The voice of the virus screams maniacally in my head, thrilled to finally sink its teeth into something. The wind whips my hair behind me as I drive my arm forward, colliding with the creature hard enough to make it stumble backwards. My other hand grips the corpse's neck, nails digging into the clammy skin, struggling to find purchase. The cuts on my hands re-open, adding my own blood to the fluids. The body's giant hands flail, grabbing at my hands and face. Razor sharp fingernails leave searing cuts across my cheeks and forehead. Blindly, I search for something solid and push my knife as deep into it as it will go. It pierces through the skull with a splintering crack and slides effortlessly into the brain matter underneath. The hands immediately go slack, falling away from me and clearing my vision. The world slows to a standstill as I hungrily watch the last embers of light fade from the eyes of my opposer. The rush that follows killing a host is a high like no other; more addicting than hunting any animal. I drink it in, the carnage around me nothing but background noise. I’m so caught up in my triumph that by the time I realize the world is tilting at an alarming rate, it’s too late to do anything about it. 

The ground is not polite when it meets the back of my head. Stars appear and then explode in front of my eyes. My teeth click together, my tongue caught between them. The literal dead weight of the body on top of me makes it impossible to breathe. I struggle to throw it off, grabbing a fistful of greasy hair and yanking. It’s no use. The head flops back onto my chest, the drool further staining my dress. The world roars back to full volume, and I’m acutely aware that I’ll have more bodies to worry about very soon. Grunting in frustration, I kick out wildly and manage to roll us onto our sides, gulping a lungful of precious air. I push myself onto hands and knees, spitting out the blood that’s pooled in my mouth. The virus whines for more – the rush has already died, leaving the shell of rage behind again.

My head snaps up, reading the area for imminent danger. Everyone seems preoccupied; odd couples locked in violent embraces. Gale's taking on two at once, his mouth twisted in determination. I see a flash of blond hair race past me in pursuit, and unwittingly think of Peeta. Isn’t he too injured to be out here? Unfortunately, I don’t have time to follow the chase. Did I hit my head harder than I thought, or are there already more of them? 

I reach back to retrieve my knife from the skull, anxious to rejoin the fight. My hand slips on the handle, still slick with various bodily fluids. Hurriedly, I wipe my hand on my leg and grab again. The blade doesn't budge. Something between a scream and a growl escapes me and I twist my neck back to figure out the problem. Somehow in our tumble, the thing's hair has gotten twisted around the hilt, creating a knot that keeps the blade in place.

I struggle with the knife, swinging my foot around and using it as leverage against the corpse's bloated face. I curse myself for not bringing my bow. Rushing out into the unknown with only one weapon could get you killed. I blame the virus' inhibition, as I often do. Another forceful tug, and the blade dislodges itself from the hair with a wet, ripping sound. I flip myself forward, still on all fours. I fight to keep balance, still dizzy after two rage episodes in one day. I have one foot on the ground, bracing myself to get up and run. Unfortunately, I don’t get the chance.

The wind is entirely knocked out of me as I’m tackled back to the ground. The knife I wasted so much time on flies into the darkness. Something screams directly into my ear, making it ring. Snapping jaws tear a hole in the sleeve of my jacket, but I don’t give them a chance to get closer. I shove as hard as I can, rolling away to a better vantage point. My back hits the body of the giant host and I throw my hands out to lift myself up. One of them sinks directly into the organs of my first foe. The scar on my wrist scrapes against a broken rib, making me wince but giving me an idea. 

I grab hold of the bone with slippery fingers. The corpse that tackled me is already up and sprinting in my direction, nearly silent in bare feet. It’s a wiry thing, emaciated and fragile-looking, but a hell of a lot faster than the first. The ferocious, hungry energy it emits is contagious. With a burst of raw vigour, I jerk my arm, snapping the rib bone in half. I whirl it in front of me. The jaws of the corpse resume their pursuit for my flesh. The host bares down on me, not even attempting to slow down. Another piercing scream assaults my ears, but this one is cut short. Broken teeth close around the rib bone as it’s rammed through the roof of its mouth until it hits brain. The body drops to its knees, lifeless. I toss it to the side, not making the mistake of waiting again. 

Launching to my feet, I dart for my knife, kicking through tall grass until I find it again. Once it’s back in my hand, I close the distance between myself and the rest of the brawl. This area has become a pulsing tangle of shrieking, blood-soaked bodies. There definitely weren’t this many when we got here. The noise must be drawing more of them closer. Feral cries mix with more human-like grunts of exertion. Bodies stumble into and over each other. The slapping and cracking of weapons hitting flesh and bone permeate the air. Glaring into the chaos, I find a struggling soldier and quickly insert myself between them and the monster. Together, we overtake it and put it down. I spin on my heel before the body even hits the ground, hunting for a new target. I repeat the process over and over – stalking, slicing, silencing - but the other side is relentless. My focus starts to slip, making it harder and harder to discern who or what I'm swinging a blade at.

Something grabs my foot, tripping me up and making me stumble. I peer down, ready to kick whatever it is away. Frantic fingers attempt to dig into the leather of my boot. I pull myself free and bring my heel down, grinding the digits to a broken pulp. The corpse they’re attached to wails pathetically. Eyes bulging, it strains futilely against the spear buried in its chest that keeps it pinned to the ground. I bring my boot up again. It makes a squelching noise when I stomp down, caving in the swollen face. A viscous, pink substance oozes out the top of its head, and it’s only then that I notice the body is missing its scalp. Deep grooves have gouged what’s left of its forehead. Realization dawns on me just as another wave of them enter the clearing. The fence. No one has secured the fence.

I tear myself away from the struggle and streak towards the darkness of the fence line. I see it almost immediately. A hole has opened up in the bottom of the chain-link about a hundred feet away from the bloodbath. Even as I watch, more bodies slide through the gap, slithering on their stomachs like mutant snakes. The edges of the hole itself are covered with bits of hair and skin, careless leftovers from those who've already made it through to our side. More corpses tug relentlessly on the snarled metal, pressing rotten faces against the barrier. We need to make a repair and we need to do it quickly or we'll be overrun. 

With no time for discretion, I stick my fingers in my mouth and whistle as loudly as I can. The blood that coats them is sticky and sweet on my tongue. A spasm rolls through me when the virus calls for more. It takes all my willpower not to rejoin the frenzy, but I manage to stay put.

A few heads turn in my direction at my call. A black-clad soldier dislodges himself from the fight when he sees what I do. There’s a shout of military speak that I don’t understand, and suddenly more masked soldiers are streaming towards the fence line. A man I recognise as the commander of the defence team shoves me out of the way, shouting at me to get somewhere safer. I want to scream at him that I'm not a child and that I’ve likely killed more infected than he has, but the indignant insult dies on my tongue when I realise how silly I must look, wild-eyed and dressed in the remnants of a merchant's dress. I back away from the fence, watching with cruel satisfaction as the soldiers mercilessly put down every body that struggles through the hole.

Eventually, the fence is barricaded crudely with a sheet of rusted metal. A better repair will need to be made, but it stops the horde for now. With their entrance cut off, the sea of undead slowly loses ground, until at last, with the absent sun slowly creeping back into the sky, the last body drops. I watch it hit the ground and for a second I want to join it there. I have never been so drained in my entire life, but there’s still work to be done. All I want in the world is to find my sister and ensure that she’s safe, and maybe after that, fall into a dreamless sleep for a day or two. I know all of that must wait though. First comes burning the dead.

The survivors of the attack work diligently at the crude task of moving the corpses. We pile them into metal carts, identifying them if we can. My immunity allows me to stay for the clean-up, with no worries of transmission. I kick the body of a boy my age over onto its back, and for one heart-stopping moment, I imagine I'm looking at Gale's lifeless face. I scan the street around me until I see the real Gale, looking defeated and speaking in hushed tones to another soldier. Another look at the body in front of me confirms that though this boy isn’t my friend, he’s definitely from the Seam. The olive skin and grey eyes hit home, and I suck in a breath at the thought of how many others our community has just lost.

In another hour or so, I get my answer. Eighteen. We find eighteen bodies from our community who will never breathe again. If any of them were immune, it didn’t save them from their injuries. The thought makes me sick. I think about this morning's announcement, and how in just a short time we'll be adding to the number of the dead without choice in the matter. Once again, I feel the rage building inside me. I’m too weary to let it get anywhere, but it festers, boiling low in my belly with an uncortable heat. 

Gale and I limp home together. He assures me our families are both safe, locked in our homes and away from the butchery. He tells me that the soldiers think someone tried to run from the district, scared senseless about the games, leaving the fence wide open in their haste. He utters harsh words about their cowardice, whoever they are, and I can’t help but let a blush colour my cheeks, wondering if he thought those same things about me when he told me to leave. I don’t ask him, and he doesn’t elaborate, so we part ways quietly at my front door. We don’t make plans to hunt, knowing full well neither of us will be in any shape to catch anything worth while. 

Prim shrieks when I open the door. It looks like she’s fallen asleep at the kitchen table. She jumps up, chair scraping across the floor, but I throw my hands out to ward her off. She waits impatiently while I scrub myself clean with cold water, not letting her touch me until all traces of blood have disappeared. 

Her skinny arms are around my waist the moment I leave the bathroom. She cries into my chest, sobbing about how scared she was, how she was so sure I wasn’t coming back home.

“I’ll always come home to you, Little Duck,” I whisper, stroking her hair and kissing her forehead. “Now, please, let’s get some sleep.”

I lead Prim into bed, let her curl up against me, and wait for her breathing to slow. Mother's under her covers already, and I worry that all of this will send her back to the darkness again. With unfocused eyes, I watch the sunlight make shadows dance around our room, and before I finally drift away, I promise myself that I will never, ever run again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please shoot me a message if you're into it!


	5. Choices

Even in my dreams, I can't escape the dead. They chase me through the forest, screeching and howling, clawed fingers ghosting over my back. I run faster and faster, but they never let up. I know I should stop, should turn around and fight my way out of this, but something keeps me moving ahead. A wisp of a girl races ahead of me, just out of reach. I hear her ragged breaths and branches cracking as she runs, but I can’t figure out who she is. She’s always just out of sight, calling my name and begging for help. 

I run for what feels like hours, until my legs burn and my heart feels like it’s about to explode. The monsters keep pace, until suddenly, they don’t. I’m all alone, following this girl in silence. She continues ahead of me, further and further, until we reach a clearing in the trees. A small, round lake glitters in the sunlight, waves lapping gently at the shore. I know this place. My father taught me to swim here years ago, when it was still safe beyond the fence.

The tiny girl laughs, walking right into the water, though it must be near freezing. Her long blonde hair swings in double braids down her back as she inches forward. I reach a hand out to pull her back, but my arm stops in mid air before I can touch her. For reasons I can’t explain, I decide that I have no desire to see her face.

We stand there like that, my arm still stretched out in front me, for a very long time. Finally, when I am about to turn and walk away from her, the girl turns around. When her face meets mine, I can’t help the scream that rips from my throat.

Prim stands before me, but it's not really her. Not anymore. Her cheeks are sunken in on themselves, and her mouth has been torn open wide, revealing every one of her teeth. She smiles brightly as me as if nothing is wrong, beckoning me forward with a rotting finger.

“Come here, Katniss,” she says so sweetly, “Come join me, it’s where you belong.” 

I back away from her, terrified and shaking my head in denial. This can't be my sister, my little duck. I was meant to protect her, to keep her safe from what she’s turned into.

When I don’t go to her, Prim's face contorts. She grinds her teeth violently, until I hear the crack of them breaking in their mouth. She spits the pieces at me, blood spraying her chin and hitting the water with soft splats. Her innocent eyes flash red with fury and when she opens her mouth to speak, her voice is gravelly and raw. 

“What's the matter, Katniss? Don't you love me anymore?” she screams. Tears drip down her cheeks into the open cavity where her lips used to be.

“I just wanted to be like you. Like my big sister!” She takes a step forward, making the cold water churn. I stumble backwards, frozen with fear.

“Don't you see, Katniss?” she says, dribbling more blood down her front. “I’m a monster, just like you. You did this. This is your fault!” 

She leaps at me, arms raised and teeth bared. I can’t run, I can’t defend myself. I can only close my eyes and wait for the pain, but it doesn’t come. 

I wake with a violent jolt. My heart beats erratically and I twist and turn, fighting against the bedsheets that have tried to strangle me in my sleep. In my panic, I manage to throw myself to the floor. I lay there for a while in defeat, watching dust particles float through the air.

When I finally raise myself up and disengage from the bedding, I’m hit with a wave of nausea and a pounding headache. My tongue feels like it’s been replaced with sandpaper. I’ve never been drunk, but based on the complaints of the workers down in the Hob, I think I may be experiencing a hangover anyway.

I make my way into the kitchen slowly, trailing my hand along the wall for support. I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep, but the house is quiet, and it seems I’m the only one home. On the kitchen table, my game bag lays open and empty. I make a mental note to thank Gale for bringing it over, and venture out to the back deck to take note of how much meat we have left. Satisfied that most of it made it through the night in the woods, I head back to the kitchen. On the way, I spot Prim's lumpy pillow and a thread-bare blanket sprawled across our couch. I don’t remember her moving last night, and I wonder what made her trade the warmth of the bed for the cold living room. Still pondering, I grab the jug of water from our icebox, in desperate need of quenching my thirst.

I’m gulping down water straight from the glass bottle when I hear the front door squeak open. I spin around, hastily wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, to see Prim traipsing in. She looks tired, with bags under her eyes, but still very much alive. She sees me standing there and grins.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” she says. “I was just coming in to check on you.” 

“Hey yourself,” I answer. The words come out hoarse and strained. How long was I out for? 

“Are you feeling better?” Prim asks, looking me up and down. “Mama said to let you sleep. You were burning up pretty bad, but you don’t look as pale as you did yesterday.”

“Good as new,” I say, but the wince I make at the pounding of my head gives me away. Prim raises an eyebrow, and I point behind me to the living room before she can start diagnosing me.

“Did you sleep on the couch last night?”

She suddenly looks bashful, staring down at the floor when she speaks.

“I couldn’t sleep. I tried to stay with you the first night, but you were thrashing around and screaming….” She trails off, studying the kitchen tiles. 

“Oh. You should have woken me up,” I say, heat rising in my cheeks. I’ve been known to mumble in my sleep, and usually Prim deals with it by switching to my mother's bed in the middle of the night. How bad must my nightmares have been to make her move rooms entirely? 

Prim shrugs and scuffs her shoe on the floor, mumbling something about how it was important for me to rest. An awkward silence falls between us, with me wondering what I said in my dreams, and with Prim looking more and more uncomfortable, until I realize what she's said.

“Hang on. You said the first night. How long have I been in bed?” 

“Two days, more or less,” says Prim gently, as if the news will make me angry. “You had a bad fever and the shakes. Mama made you some herbal tea and woke you up to drink it, but you didn’t look like you knew what was happening.” 

I balk at her words. If I concentrate hard enough, fuzzy memories of my mother at my bedside appear, but it’s like looking through frosted glass, the shapeless images of the half-asleep mind. Two days. That’s two days too many to lose in our world. I’ve lost valuable time to hunt before winter settles in for good. I’ve missed two days of training, for which I’m sure I’ll be punished. And most importantly…

“The Reaping.” The word sounds harsh and foreign when it rolls over my tongue. Gale told me the reaping ceremony was to take place in three days when we walked home after the security breach. I’ve been asleep for two of them. I’ve lost what could be the last days I have left with my family, all because of the virus that controls my life. I feel sick, but I force the fury down, not letting it get the best of me today. 

Prim nods, her eyes wet and shiny. 

“Tomorrow morning, in the square again. Mama keeps crying when she thinks I’m not looking. She keeps talking about how few children there are in the district now, and how the odds are never in our favour…”

She wipes at her eyes furiously, trying to stem the flow of tears that fall from them. A hard lump starts to form in my throat, full of disdain and disgust for my mother. She’s terrified Prim, made her feel like she’s bound to be picked for the games. A mother's duty is to protect her children. I know she cannot protect us from this, but the least she could do is provide some comfort. My disdain turns personal when I realize that Prim's had to take care of both of us for the past few days.

Prim's tears have turned to full blown sobs, and I instinctively pull her to me. I wrap my arms around her skinny frame and shush her, rubbing slow circles over her back.

“Don't worry, little duck,” I murmur into her ear. “You’ll be okay. The rules are the same, right? One slip per year. There’s no tesserae slips in that bowl for either of us. That means there’s only one slip of paper with your name on it. One measly little slip. It doesn’t matter how many names are in that bowl – the odds are still in our favour.”

My words are only meant to soothe Prim, but they have a comforting effect on me, too. What I said isn’t wrong – the elimination of tesserae began after the cancellation of the games, but before the outbreak, meager food supplies could be bought for an extra name slip in the reaping pool. Anyone from the age of twelve to eighteen can be reaped, but I was too young to have ever needed to add an extra slip when that was the case. Prim has never even seen a tesserae package. That means that there’s only one tiny piece of paper baring the name Primrose Everdeen in that bowl. Only one tiny chance that my sister will ever be in danger of being a tribute. I suppose that also means there’s only four slips with my own name on them, a thought that barely crosses my mind. 

Prim hiccups and heaves a huge sigh while I continue my circles across her back. She gives me a quick squeeze before pulling away. When she does, my stomach breaks the silence with a demanding growl.

Giggling and wiping her face with her sleeve, Prim pokes my belly and strides over to the bread box on the counter. 

“I thought you’d be hungry,” she says, her cheerful demeanour already back in place. “I saved some buns for you! Peeta brought them over this morning.”

She hands me a golden-brown roll, topped with baked cheese. The smell alone makes my dry mouth water, and when I take the first bite, I groan in satisfaction. It may be because I’ve been without food for two days, but this is the best thing I’ve eaten in as long as I can remember. I’m glad, but not surprised, that Peeta kept his promise of more baked goods. He seems like the kind of person to live by his word. 

While I scarf down the rest of the buns, Prim tells me about her morning spent with the Hawthornes. She talks about teaching Gale's sister Posy the alphabet, and about Rory pulling her hair and chasing her around the backyard. She tells me about how Hazel, Gale's mother, spoke in hushed tones with our own mother in the kitchen over tea, and how Mother looked a little more calm when Prim said goodbye. That makes me feel marginally better. If anyone can keep our mother in check, it's Hazel Hawthorne. Another Seam Widow, Hazel has a reputation around town as a hard, honest woman. She and my mother bonded over their husbands' deaths, and I hope that my mother can hold onto Hazel to stay afloat again.

“Gale wasn’t home,” Prim continues, “but Mrs. Hawthorne said he'll be home for supper and that we're invited over if you want to go.”

I nod absentmindedly. The truth is, what I want is to speak to Gale alone. The things I need to speak to him about are not dinner table topics. We need a plan. The hunger games have thrown a loop in my goal for Prim, and I don’t like being blind-sided. Even if no one in our families becomes a tribute this year, Prim will have another six years before she turns eighteen, and that number only grows for Gale's siblings. I don’t know how to protect any of them from that, but Gale might already be thinking of a way.

If he isn’t home, I have a good idea of where he might be. I wipe the crumbs off my fingers and leave to get changed. I wave goodbye to Prim, promising her I'll see her at the Hawthornes’ by sundown, and grab my father's jacket. My fingers brush over a smooth cotton patch on the arm as I lift it off the hook it hangs on. The neat stitching covers the hole that was ripped through it by the attacking undead. The disdain for my mother softens, especially when I realize the patch is made from the material of the dress I destroyed. I try to remind myself that she's trying, in her own way. 

My plan was to find Gale beyond the fence, where I assumed he would be. That plan soon turns out to be an impossibility when I see the stark white figures of peace keepers crawling all over the border. I watch them uneasily, hoping this is just an extra precaution after the attack, and that their presence will calm down after tomorrow. With no way out, and extra time on my hands from now until dinner, I wander aimlessly until I end up at the Hob.

The black market of district twelve, the ancient barn known as the Hob stands just at the end of the Seam. Extra guards or not, the place seems to be bustling along as usual. Vendors call out their daily wares and prices. Old men sit on rickety wooden chairs, playing card games and gambling under the tables. A few children run amuck, chasing chickens and feral cats. This place used to terrify me as a child, having only ever been told never to come here alone by my parents. When my father died, and trading became essential for survival, I realized it was much more welcoming for someone like me than the merchant stores ever were. 

I walk through the aisles between storefronts, waving at the people I know and giving a wider space around people I don’t. I didn’t bring anything to trade with, so I don’t pay too much attention to what’s for sale today. Mostly, I’m hoping to catch a glimpse of Gale, or someone who may know where he is. I’m hoping he wasn’t stupid enough to risk leaving the perimeter with so many peace keepers afoot. 

I don’t see him anywhere in here, and I’m about to head towards the slag heap around back as a last ditch effort, when I catch a head of bright red hair in the corner of my eye. Darius, our defence trainer, sits on a stool in front of Greasy Sae's counter. His head is thrown back in laughter, and he pats the shoulder of the person beside him. I make my way through the crowd, and breathe a sigh of relief when I see that it’s Gale who sits beside Darius. The relief melts into shock and then into anger when I notice his current state. 

Drunk. Gale is definitely drunk, and not handling it very well by the looks of it, either. He's slumped over the counter, his head propped up in his hands. He turns to me with glassy eyes and nearly falls off his stool.

“She lives!” he says, much too loudly. Darius snickers behind his back. 

“Gale, what are you doing?” I hiss at him. He raises a glass in my direction and the smell of liquor hits me square in the face. It turns my already queasy stomach.

“Drinking the last of my freedom away, Everdeen, what’s it look like?” he slurs, slopping clear liquid down his front. I blink at him and look up to Darius.

“What's he talking about? How long has he been down here?” 

Darius shrugs, looking at the back of Gale's head with amusement. 

“Dunno. Found him here ‘bout an hour ago, tellin’ his life story to old Sae, there.” 

The woman in question sidles up to us at that moment. Her grey hair is up in its usual hairpin bun, and she smiles wide enough to show her missing teeth. 

“Katniss, dear. Come to join your beau?” 

I don’t bother to correct her. Sae knows Gale and I are nothing more than friends, but she’s teased us about being more than that for years. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that most of the town thinks Gale and I are together, but I’ve never given it much thought. 

“No,” I say. “Just wondering why you’re letting this minor drink himself sick in the middle of the afternoon.”

Gale waves a dismissive hand at me and grunts while Sae and Darius laugh.

“Oh, do we have a future peace keeper on our hands, now?” Darius teases. “Since when have you been concerned with the law?”

“Ah, it’s rough times for everyone, girl. Let the boy do as he pleases,” Sae chastises. “’Sides, he paid up fair and square, and I ain't about to let good meat pass by these days.”

I look down at Gale again, who’s pouring the last of the liquid in his cup down his throat. 

“Your mother's going to kill you, you know,” I warn him. “She invited us over for dinner.”

“Let her. I'm gonna die, anyway,” Gale scoffs, slamming his empty glass on the bar top. 

I’m at a loss for words. Gale's lamented about our struggles often enough, but always in the bitter, angry way that I’m used to. This new self-pity is unlike him, and frankly it scares me a little. Of all the times to express emotion, he couldn’t have picked a worse one.

“You're not making sense, Gale,” I try. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Makes perfect sense to me,” he growls. “Could be tomorrow, could be next week. Tribute or soldier, those are both dead man's jobs.” 

I bite my lip, totally perplexed at the situation I’ve walked into. Gale has been training to become a soldier since I’ve met him. He’s always run towards danger, not from it. I’ve never known him to fear death in the least. The only thing that’s changed since I last saw him is the Games. Do they have this much power over us already? 

He reaches for his mug again, apparently forgetting he’s already emptied its contents. When he doesn’t find what he’s after, he knocks it to the floor where it shatters, sending broken glass skating across the floor to crunch under the soles of passersby. He swerves off the stool and nearly falls to his knees. I put a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to steady him, but he shrugs away violently and catches my wrist in his hand. He holds on too tightly, hurting me, and the look he gives me is one I know too well.

“Let go, Gale. We're leaving.” I throw as much authority as I can into my voice. He stares down at me defiantly, but when his gaze trails down to see my wrist being held captive, he drops it, looking more confused than angry. He manages to fully stand on shaky legs, the challenge already fading out of his posture. I say a curt goodbye to Darius, who laughs and tells me this makes up for my missed training sessions. With a longing look at the bottles of liquor on Sae's back shelves, Gale reluctantly lets me guide him out of the Hob and into the cold afternoon sun. 

Once we're alone and away from the crowd, my friend seems to further deflate. He drags his feet, shuffling along the walkway. I want to dig into him and tell him how stupid he's being, but the risk of sending both of us into another episode is too high. Liquor can turn the best natured people into fighters. I have no idea what it can do to the virus.

We walk back to our neighborhood in silence for a while, until the awkwardness is too great for me to handle. I slow to a near crawl, waiting for Gale to catch up. When he does, I link his arm through mine, guiding him past potholes and cracks in the road.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask tentatively. Part of me hopes that he doesn’t. As awkward as the silence might be, talking about feelings is almost always objectively worse. 

Gale heaves a huge sigh, leaning his weight into me and almost pushing us into the ditch. He chuckles a little to himself, but it sounds empty to me. He doesn’t answer me for so long that I’ve assumed that he won’t. I’m in the middle of figuring out how to sober him up before we’re expected for dinner when he suddenly halts, pulling my arm until I’m facing him directly. 

“I’m sorry, Katnip,” he says. The words drip with guilt, but are already more clear than they were in the barn. “I shouldn’t have…I just….” He stops, sighs again, and braces himself with his hand on my shoulder.

“I meant what I said – about dying. I’ve been thinking ‘bout it more and more, and with the games back in play… Our whole lives, we haven’t known anything but suffering. What kind of a life is that?”

“The only one we have, I guess,” I mumble. It’s not the answer he wants to hear, I can see it on his face. “What other choice do we have?”

“That’s just it!” he cries, throwing his hands in the air. “There is no choice for me, there never was! I didn’t choose to have to break laws just to stay alive. I didn’t choose to kill anyone. I didn’t choose to bury my father. I didn’t choose to be immune to this god-damn virus, and I sure as hell am not choosing to die so the damn Capitol can have their fucking entertainment back!” 

Gale's panting by the end of his outburst, a vein twitching in his neck. He looks at me expectantly, like he wants me to yell with him, but I have nothing to add. When I stay mute, he makes a noise caught between a laugh and a sob and takes an unsteady step backwards.

Out of desperation, I spit out the first thing that comes to mind, which happens to be the dumbest possible response in the world.

“But, you chose to become a soldier.” 

If looks could kill, I’d be a corpse.

“Oh right, some choice!” Gale screams at me. “What was the other option, to die in a mine collapse or get the black lung? Katniss, the only reason I worked so hard to get into the military was so that I could pretend my death had a purpose!”

I don’t have any rebuttal to that. It’s an unspoken rule that for men in the Seam, there’s really only two career options: the military or the mines. My own prospects aren’t much better as a woman, but now is not the time for that argument. 

Gale's nearly sobbing now, pacing back and forth in the dirt. He runs his hands roughly through his short hair, making it stand on end and giving him an electrified, manic look. 

“And now that doesn’t even matter!” he exclaims to the sky. “Come tomorrow, the only choice I had might be ripped away from me! Four days. I had four days left, Katniss!”

I shift uncomfortably under his bloodshot gaze. I hadn’t even thought about what this means for my best friend. He won’t be nineteen until next week, and therefore he's made the cut-off to be reaped by just a few measly days. If his name is read out to the crowd tomorrow morning, it will be the world's cruelest joke. That feeling of overwhelming helplessness that’s become so common creeps over me, pressing into my chest and weaving through my brain until I offer the only solution I’ve ever been able to come up with. 

“Let's run, then,” I say, stepping closer to him. “You and I, our families. You’ve said it a thousand times. We could survive out there. With our hunting and Mother's medicine-”

I’m cut off by a laugh so condescending it stings.

“That was before. There’s no way in hell we’d get past the gate now,” Gale argues. “You saw how many peace keepers are around. Do you think Posy could outrun one of them? Could Prim? Do you think any of them really has a chance against a host?”

I swallow hard and cross my arms. I know he’s right. Gale's little sister is a frail little thing. She wouldn’t last one night.

“They caught the people who caused the breach, you know,” he continues, “Turns out it was the Thompsons. They hung the whole family for desertion, Capitol's orders.” 

An unbidden image of Prim's tiny feet dangling in the air flashes before me, and I squeeze my eyes shut to blink them from existence. Gale's driven his point home. There’s no escaping our future, however bleak it may be. A dull pain pulses out from my wrist in protest of what I know to be the truth. 

“So, you’re just giving up.” It’s a statement, not a question. Nothing Gale has said has been dishonest, but instead of the comfort I know he’s looking for, I resort to my default: anger. 

“Yeah, guess that’s my choice,” he spits, venom soaking the words. I know I'm pushing him in the wrong direction, but my own outrage blinds my common sense. 

“It’s not your only choice. You can choose to survive. You can choose to keep fighting. Your family needs you. I need you.” 

My last sentence gives Gale pause. His expression softens and he drops his arms to his sides. I glare up at him, daring him to contradict me. I mean what I said. I do need Gale. He’s my only real friend, and more than that, he’s the only other person in my life who truly knows what it's like to live with an imposter in his veins. If Gale gives up on surviving, what chance do I have to continue on? I'm gathering up the courage to say all of this out loud to him when all my thoughts are cut short by his lips on mine.

The kiss is rough, tastes like alcohol, and is thoroughly one-sided. In my shock, I find it impossible to react at all. My eyes are still wide open, staring dumbly at Gale's dark eyelashes. His teenaged whiskers scratch my cheeks. My mouth stays still, firmly set in a thin line. By the time I realize I’ve just experienced my first kiss, and that it’s with the last person I'd expect it from, Gale's already pulled away. 

“I thought…” he doesn’t complete the sentence, his eyes searching my face. I don’t know what he thought. I’ve never given any consideration to my feelings for Gale beyond friendship, nor did I ever think he had for me. This is terrifying new ground, and something in my gut tells me there’s something not right about it. I do need Gale, but not like that. He’s my best friend, and I need him to help me keep surviving. My cheeks burn and my lips feel numb and I take a few harried steps backward. It takes a momentous effort not to spin on my heel and run.

“I'm sorry, Katniss. That was a mistake. I don’t know-” 

“It’s fine. You’ve been drinking. You didn’t know what you were doing.” I cut his apology off before it can get out. The implications of what this means for our friendship are too overwhelming to consider at the moment. I settle on choosing to believe in my own explanation. Gale's intoxicated. He’s hurting and looking for comfort. I just happened to be the closest person in proximity who might give it to him. He gives me another long, searching look, and an emotion I can’t quite comprehend flashes over his features before he turns away.

He scrubs his hands over his face and shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. When he faces me again, his face is a mask of neutrality. 

“Just pretend that didn’t happen,” he says, looking over my head. “We should go. Dinner's likely on the table already.” 

He brushes past me in the direction of home. I notice that his steps are already much more steady than they were before, and I wonder if he was playing up his inebriation as an excuse for his behaviour. I follow a few paces behind him, intent on slowing my heartbeat to an acceptable level before we reach our destination. This afternoon did not go how I intended, and if I hadn’t promised Prim I'd be there, I can’t say I wouldn’t skip the food to slip back into the solace of sleep. 

Dinner at the Hawthornes is a quiet and awkward affair. Hazel and my mother make forced conversation, but the lulls between topics are too long to be natural. The apprehension of what tomorrow brings hangs thick in the air. I opt to sit as far away from Gale as possible, and Prim shoots curious side long glances my way every few minutes. I push my meat around on my plate, my stomach too jittery to allow for hunger. When Mother notices my lack of appetite and asks me if I'm feeling alright, I jump at the opportunity to get myself out of the situation. Feigning a headache, I excuse myself as politely and quickly as possible. No one objects, and I pat Prim on the head on my way out the door. Gale gives me a solemn look and a short goodbye, but doesn’t offer to walk me home, for which I'm grateful.

The distance between our places is short but freezing, and my fingers and toes are tingling when I throw myself under the covers of my bed. I stare up at the ceiling, the pressure of defeat sitting on my chest. I still have no plan. Our families are still in danger. My best friend has not only given up his will to survive, he’s inexplicitly changed the very nature of our relationship in a way that I'm not sure I want to explore. 

Everything about today has been nothing short of unwelcome, and the thought of what awaits me in the morning makes me curl into myself as tightly as I can. Despite having just spent two days straight in this bed, I feel sleep pulling on my eyelids again. I pull the blanket up over my head and breathe out deeply. Whatever happens tomorrow, I promise myself that I will survive it, in whatever way I can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Any feedback is so appreciated.


	6. The Reaping

I thought I knew fear. I thought we were introduced when I watched the dead rise and become something even my nightmares knew nothing about yet. I thought it made its home in my bones when I learned my father was never coming home again. I thought it had sewn itself into my chest and bonded with my blood ever since the day I was bitten. I thought, so naively, that fear and I were old friends. But as I stand here, cold sweat dripping down my back and making fingernail indents in my palms, I realize that I have never had the misfortune to know fear as intimately as I do now.

Perhaps it's because the first outbreak began when I was so small, or because I've shared my body with the virus for so long, but the type of terror the undead bring with them is one that I have always been able to stomach. When Father died, the pain was so insurmountable that the fear of what came next for us was overshadowed. There’s nothing for the fear to hide behind when Prim and I are separated in the square. It hovers, naked and visceral, whispering unspeakable things in my ear while I stare straight ahead.

Every citizen between the ages of twelve to eighteen stand in shivering lines in the middle of town, grouped together by age and gender. Prim was sent to the very front, while I was pushed to the centre with the rest of the sixteen-year-old girls. I don’t see Gale, but I know he’s somewhere behind me. I manage to push my way past trembling teenagers to stand beside Madge Undersee, the mayor's daughter. She gives me a quick, tight smile. Madge is the closest I have to a girlfriend. She’s comfortable with the quiet like I am, and she and I were often paired together in training. With her father in the position that he is, she’s had to live in infamy in much the same way that I have because of my immunity. We stand together in solidarity, waiting for the ceremony to begin.

The double screens have been raised above the crowd again, the insignia of Panem lit up on both. The left screen must have been replaced since the first announcement, no trace of Haymitch Abernathy's destruction left on the pristine glass. Speaking of which, I wonder whether he’s been barred from attending today. There’s an empty chair on the makeshift stage with his name on it, between the mayor and a woman dressed in the strangest attire I’ve ever seen. The escort, I surmise. 

Tradition dictates that a Capitol citizen is tasked with guiding the district tributes through the pre-Games process along with their mentor. This woman must be Twelve's. She looks too out of place to be from anywhere else but the Capitol. Her hair is a loud shade of pink, piled high on her head and teased to look wild. She wears a matching jacket and skirt, both items torn and frayed, but in a way that suggests it was done purposefully. Her face has been painted so white it looks like marble, and blood-red pigment covers her lips. There are dark purple smudges under her eyes, making her look exhausted and sickly. I panic initially, wondering if she’s somehow been infected, until she turns her head and the glitter sparkles. It’s make-up. The rips in her clothes suddenly make sense. She’s dressed herself as a gaudy rendition of the undead. It’s such a bizarre realization that I don’t know what to make of it, simply chalking it up to another senseless Capitol trend.

I’ve been so enamoured with the pink-haired woman that I physically recoil when the mayor clears his throat and taps the microphone in front of him, sending a wave of feedback into the crowd. He looks nervous and solemn, and clears his throat a second time before he addresses us.

“Good morning, District Twelve. Let me welcome you all to the first Reaping Ceremony in over a decade.”

He pauses, shuffling his notes on the podium. The row of peace keepers surrounding the stage is even longer than it was three days ago. The precaution is understandable, but unnecessary. One look around at the dejected faces in this crowd tells me that the fight has already been extinguished. 

“For many of you, this will be the first Reaping Ceremony you’ll remember attending. For the rest of us, today's choosing of the tributes of the Hunger Games will be a familiar process, and the symbolism it represents has not been lost.” The mayor speaks in a careful monotone, eyes flicking from his notes to the cameras pointed at him, broadcasting the event to the rest of Panem. 

“It is my duty to remind you all of how the Games came to be,” he continues, “so as to ensure that the purpose of the Hunger Games continues to resonate.”

And so he does. Undersee launches into a dry, factual retelling of the great rebellion, and how that rebellion sparked the Dark Days, and how the Treaty of Treason was established to uphold the uneasy peace between the districts and the Capitol after the rebellion failed. He talks about how the Hunger Games were created as punishment for the districts’ wrong-doings, and how they continued to exist as a warning of the power we were up against. The crowd listens with varied attention. The younger people, those born after the cancellation of the last games, hang onto every word, still unaware of what they’re about to witness. The older generations have heard this spiel before, and fidget impatiently until he finishes. I fall into the latter group, and pick at a scab on my hand as a distraction.

“And so, after much deliberation between District officials and Capitol liaisons, it was decided that the Hunger Games are to be reinstated, under the condition that the winning tribute's district will be the first to receive the newly created vaccine for the virus.”

There’s a growing murmur in the crowd as Undersee finishes his speech. Deliberation. He knew. The mayor knew, and decided for his people without their knowledge that they would participate in the games. A few girls turn on Madge, who stares directly at her father. Her face is set, and there’s no point in asking her whether she knew, as well. The urge to throttle her skinny neck is fleeting, before I remind myself that even if she had this prior knowledge, she couldn't have done anything about it. I try to catch her eye to let her know I understand, but she continues on with her brave face and unwavering study of the stage. 

Undersee clears his throat once again, doing his best to ignore the jeers and insults from the crowd. The murmur has become a louder heckling, and the row of soldiers takes a unified step forward. A warning. It works, and the people shush themselves into silence again. 

“And now,” the Mayor carries on, “I’d like to introduce District Twelve's Capitol escort, Miss Effie Trinket. Please give her a warm District Twelve welcome.”

Effie Trinket takes the stage to a smattering of unenthusiastic applause. She approaches the podium on impossibly high stiletto heels, and smiles with overly-white, perfect teeth. The effect is garish with her red lips, and she falters at the sight of such a stone-faced audience. 

“Well, it’s been such a long time since I’ve had the pleasure to visit your district,” she begins in her strange, frilly accent. “It's so lovely to see you all again, and hello to all these bright, new faces!” 

She opens her arms to the youngest children in front of her, beaming down at them. Through the screens, I see them staring back, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Unperturbed at their lack of acknowledgement, she pushes forward.

“It is with the greatest honour, I’ve been asked to relay a message on the President's behalf for you before we begin.” She pulls a crisp, white card from her jacket pocket with a flourish, and holds it out in front of her with perfectly manicured fingers. 

“To the citizens of Panem,” she reads, “it is with sincere apology that I must admit, in the excitement of this week's grand announcement, an important distinction was lost in the declaration. I, President Coriolanus Snow, hereby declare that all citizens of Panem of reaping age, be they active military members, medical personnel, or immune to the effects of the virus, are entitled to become district tributes, should their name be chosen. This year's game makers are confident that what they have in store will pose an even playing ground for all competitors. May the odds be ever in your favour. Thank you.”

This new announcement causes a ripple of movement, this time directed towards me. Curious eyes watch my reaction, likely wondering if I was hoping for an exemption. The truth is, I hadn’t even considered it a possibility. I’m numb to the knowledge that the President has explicitly made certain that there’s no question in eligibility, except for a sinking regret for Gale. I’m glad that it hadn’t come up between us, but I don’t turn around to see his reaction. We haven’t had a chance to speak since yesterday, and I still don’t know where we stand.

“Well, there you have it!” Effie Trinket's shrill voice rings out. “Now you can all rest assured that no one will be left out!” She acts as though this is cause for celebration. It’s nauseating. My nails dig deeper into my palms and I force steady breaths through my nose. 

“And now,” Effie exclaims with gusto, “without further ado, let the reinstallation of the Hunger Games begin!” 

If she expected applause, she’s greatly misread her audience. The only sound to be heard is the wind whistling through the square. She smiles, none the less, but her nervous energy shows through the façade. She turns to the Mayor behind her.

“The reaping bowls, if you please, Mr. Undersee,” she says, beckoning to two crystal spheres set on the side of the stage. The mayor rises obediently and walks to where they sit.

“Ladies first, I think!” Effie says brightly. Undersee picks up the far left bowl and hands it to her carefully. The paper slips baring our names inside of it swirl around. I find myself holding my breath, wondering how something so fragile can be so very, very dangerous.

Effie takes the bowl and shifts it around, making an exaggerated show of dipping her hand in. Her taloned fingers latch on to a piece of paper, and I close my eyes, unable to watch. My heart beats erratically. My lungs feel frozen. Only one thought pounds through my head:

Not Prim. Not Prim. Not Prim. 

“The female district for District Twelve, in this momentous occasion of the return of the Hunger Games will be-“

A chorus of shouts and chants interrupt Effie before she can name anyone. My eyes flash open. Has the district decided it will fight against this after all? My head snaps to the peace keepers, but they remain in place. On stage, there’s a disruption in the form of Haymitch Abernathy. He’s come without a bottle, and without his sobriety too, it looks like. Half of his shirt tail sticks out the front of his pants, and his straw-coloured hair is as greasy and mangy as ever. Tight-lipped guards lead him to his seat and push him down into it, while he waves sarcastically at the crowd and cameras. Effie watches the commotion with a look of pure contempt from her podium before facing the crowd again.

“Ah, yes. It seems like our esteemed mentor has finally decided to join us. Everyone, please welcome Haymitch Abernathy, whom I'm sure you all know as District Twelve's sole victor.” 

Haymitch spits onto the stage as half-hearted cheers and boos rise from the crowd. His crossed arms and slouched demeanor makes it very clear that he couldn’t care less about them. I see him mumble something under his breath to the Mayor, who does his best to hide a shocked laugh, but he’s too far away from any microphones to make out what he says.

Effie coughs again, making a clicking sound with her tongue to express her displeasure at losing the crowd's attention. She waves the slip of paper in front of her, as if we all need a reminder of why we're gathered here.

“Now, if we’re finished with distractions, please let me introduce the female victor for District Twelve.”

A hush blankets the crowd. The kind of quiet that settles in the moments after the far-away boom of a mine collapse, or when a scouting team has yet to return past their return date. The terrified silence of those who don’t want to know what they’re about to lose. Effie unfolds the tiny scrap of paper, and reads out two words that change my world forever.

“Primrose Everdeen.”

No. There’s been a mistake. This can’t be right. There was only one slip with my sister's name in that bowl. One tiny, insignificant fucking piece of paper. Vaguely, I'm aware that there are arms holding me in place, and that I’ve sunk down to my knees on the wet concrete. On the screen above me, Prim inches her way forward. She’s ghostly white, but has her bravest face on. Her hands are in tiny pink fists at her sides. She moves up the aisle of staring children, and I can see that the back of her blouse has come undone out of her skirt again. My little duck. My innocent sister, too good for this world. She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t have a chance. She was born into a world too cruel for the likes of her, and now she’s being made to suffer for it. I can’t let this happen. I won’t.

I push myself off the ground, struggling against the arms that hold me still. I slap them away, aware now that my vision is darkening and my scar is on fire. The arms keep their hold, and I wrench myself back, facing my captor. Gale holds fast, looking at me with pleading eyes.

“Katniss, don't,” he begs.

“I don't have a choice,” I respond, ripping my arm out his grasp. I stumble backwards, out of the crowd and into the empty aisle. Prim looks back for just a second, and I can tell she knows what I'm about to do. She opens her mouth in horror, screaming at me not to do it, but I know with upmost certainty that it has to be this way. This is the only way I can keep her safe. If Prim reaches the top of those stairs, she will die. And so, I do the only thing in my power to protect my sister.

“I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!”

The words ring clearly through the air. Shocked gasps follow them, no one having considered this outcome. Volunteer tributes are allowed, but there hasn’t been a single one in our district since the games began. Who wants to volunteer for their inevitable demise? 

I walk purposefully towards the stage, forcing myself to continue forward with slow, steady steps. Although every muscle in my body screams for it, I refuse to run. My veins feel like they’re about to explode. The virus pumping through them may well be setting my skin ablaze, it burns so hot. I ignore it, biting my tongue until I taste blood, not allowing myself to give in to its power. I may have just lost control over what’s left of my life, but I will not fall apart here, in front of everyone.

I pass Prim on the bottom of the stairs to the stage. She screams and cries, reaching for me with outstretched arms, begging me to take it back, to let her go instead. Gale appears again, just in time. He’s followed me on hunter's feet, ready to catch Prim and pull her back into the crowd. I’m grateful, because I don’t know if I would have had the strength to continue if she reached me. I force myself to ignore my sister and my best friend, and when I reach the podium and Effie Trinket, my face is a blind mask, cold and distant.

“Well, what an exciting beginning!” Effie cries, grabbing for my hand. “And what is your name, dear?”

“Katniss Everdeen,” I say, leaning into the microphone when she prompts me.

“Oh! Another Everdeen!” Effie points at Prim, who is still struggling in Gale's arms. “Your sister, I take it?”

I nod tersely, not trusting myself to speak once I’ve seen myself on the giant screens. Effie beams at me and winks to the crowd.

“Couldn't let her steal all the fame and glory, hmm?” she asks. I don’t answer, but my glare is enough to let her know I’m not going to play along with her banter. I pull my arm away from hers, making my jacket sleeve ride up. Effie sees what I don’t want her to before I can move to the back of the stage, and she grabs for my wrist again.

“Ooh, is that what I think it is? Not only a volunteer, but an immune one at that! How very fascinating!” she squeals. Her fingers trace the bite mark, feeling like needles jabbing into my skin. I move away from her as quickly as I can. I want to rip her throat out. 

I end up standing beside Haymitch, who has apparently left his seat, looking interested in today's event for the first time. I inch sideways, trying not to breathe in his fumes. He looks at me with an odd expression, and swings an arm around me, leaning in close to whisper in my ear, “Brave of you, kid. Stupid, but brave.”

I don’t respond, choosing to stare over the crowd at the treeline. I should have tried to get back out there, one last time before today. I’ll never feel the peace the forest brought me again. Even the monsters hanging around the fence, just pin pricks against the grey backdrop, have me feeling remorseful. I hope that Gale has the sense to give my bow to Prim. She’s always been terrible at hunting, but she should have something to remember me by. 

Effie has continued on already, prattling on about how thrilled she is about such a noteworthy reaping day already. I haven’t been listening, a faint buzzing building in my ears. It isn’t until I see the glint of the glass bowl in her hand that I realise the male tribute is about to be announced.

She swirls her hand again, sending paper askew, until she finds purchase on one particular slip. Although it did absolutely nothing before, I find myself repeating my mantra, just with a new name. Not Gale. Not Gale. Not Gale. If Gale is reaped, or if he decides to volunteer, our families will have no one left to protect them. A wave of regret washes over me again and I inwardly kick myself for not forcing a plan together. We never had a chance to speak about what we would do if one of us were reaped. Volunteering hadn’t ever been discussed. I scan the crowd, desperately searching for his tall frame. He’s still there at the front of the crowd, holding onto Prim. We lock eyes, and I shake my head, no. The movement would hardly register as a twitch to anyone else, but I know Gale realizes what it means. He nods back, looking weary and resigned.

“Alright gentlemen, your turn!” Effie announces. Another slip of paper is in her hand. 

I hold my breath with everyone else. Whoever it is that she calls, I will have to try to kill them if I ever want to make it back home. They will have to try to kill me. The person about to stand on this stage with me will be my immediate enemy. Selfishly, I hope for a merchant's name to be called. This will be difficult enough without the bond of the Seam. Even more selfishly, though I push the thought down as soon as it forms, a minuscule, horrible piece of me hopes that Gale's name is called. At least that way, I’ll die with a friend by my side.

“This years male tribute for District Twelve will be,” Effie says, pausing for dramatic effect, “Peeta Mellark!”

Oh no. Not him. Anyone but him. My vision blurs a blinding shade of red for just a moment, and I can see on the screens that my mask has slipped. I fix it, standing tall and hoping my calm disguise hasn’t been lost, but on the inside, I’m going rabid. Not Peeta. I cannot kill Peeta. I already owe him my life; how can I repay that debt by taking his? 

Below me, there’s minor confusion as no one steps forward. Two peace keepers step into the crowd, but Peeta steps out into the aisle before they get to him. His face shows nothing but blind shock. In place of his military blacks, he’s dressed in a simple white button-up and khaki pants. He’s several shades paler than usual, making the bruise on his cheek stand out painfully. He walks slowly towards the stairs, looking more and more like he’s about to faint. Perhaps the peace keepers sense this, because they march up to him, grab his shoulders and push him up the steps. He stumbles over to where Haymitch and I stand, bypassing Effie completely. That warm scent of cinnamon strikes me again once he’s close, and I can see that he’s visibly shaking. A pit of sympathy opens in my belly when I see his bright blue eyes shining with unshed tears. I know he has brothers, but the crowd is silent. No one volunteers. 

“Well, that’s that!” Effie says, all smiles. “Ladies and gentlemen of District Twelve, these are your tributes, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark!” 

There’s no cheers. The crowd is mute. The heaviness of what has just transpired sifts through the air like ash. Everyone standing in this square is looking up at us, these tributes, these children, whom in such a short time, they will have to watch die. Most of them are strangers to me, but they must feel as I do: that this is unjust, that they do not agree with this arrangement, that this is wrong. One by one, hands reach up to mouths to be kissed by dry lips, and then are raised into the air, three fingers pointing skyward. It’s a gesture of old tradition, one I used to give to my father before he left on a mission. It means thank you. It means I love you. It means goodbye. 

Effie clicks her tongue again, clearly uncomfortable at this blatant act of rebellion. She turns to Peeta and I.

“Tributes, why don’t you shake hands? You’ve just met your first competitor!”

I turn stiffly towards him. He’s managed to choke back his tears, but his hand still trembles when he extends it to me. I reach for it, clasping onto it for just a fraction of a second before letting go. Even still, I can feel the warmth from it radiate into my own. He smiles at me, and the kindness in his eyes makes me swallow hard. I don’t return it, instead staring at him coolly, void of emotion. I will not allow him to disarm me. If this is how it has to be, I’ve decided, I will keep Peeta at arm's length, as a stranger. If I have to kill him, I do not want to know him.

The anthem of Panem blares from the speakers on either side of the stage, and Effie ushers us through a side stage exit. Haymitch follows us, muttering about how there better be better liquor on the train. As soon as we’re sheltered from the crowd, Peeta and I are separated, pushed into single rooms on either side of the narrow hallway we're in.

As soon as I’m alone, the hold I have on myself falls apart. The virus rears its ugly head, and I swipe at anything in reach. The room I’m in is nicer than nearly anything I’ve seen in the district, but the furniture splinters and cracks just the same as any other. I only allow the virus free reign for a few minutes, before collecting myself, panting and wondering if I’ll be punished for demolishing government property. I guess it doesn’t matter. I’ve already signed myself up to die, what’s a little more pain along the way. 

I sink down to the plush carpet, trailing fingers against the soft velvet. Based on tradition, I should be expecting a last visit with my family before I’m shipped to the Capitol at any moment now. I wipe my eyes and wait as patiently as I can, trying to keep calm before Prim sees me. 

The weight of what I’ve done is just starting to take effect. I have volunteered for the Hunger Games. I will need to kill other children to survive. I, and Peeta, are the only hope our district has of getting that vaccine. I will likely never see my family again after today. I close my eyes, scrape up the last of my resolve, and decide that I can only do what I’ve always done: try to survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This chapter stayed close to the original works, as it's the catalyst for the entire series really, and it didn't feel right to mess with it too much. A fair warning that the games themselves have been re-envisioned to work a little differently in this version, what with the undead and all. :)


	7. Goodbye

The minutes before anyone comes to say goodbye are some of the loneliest I’ve ever known. I spend them pacing, pushing broken pieces of furniture into corners, wiping my blood off of them. The longer time stretches on, the more frantically I move. Where are they? Is anyone coming at all? Is this my punishment? Did I lose my chance to see them for the last time by letting the virus loose in this room?

Tears are rolling down my cheeks, threatening to turn into sobs at my own recklessness, when there’s a tentative knock at the door. I hurriedly wipe the salty traitors away and rush to open it. When I see who’s standing on the other side, I’m certain there's been a mistake. A carbon copy of Peeta, only aged 30 years, smiles sadly down at me, blue eyes pooled with sympathy. 

“Oh. You have the wrong room. Peeta is in the one across from here.” I point over his shoulder, unable to hide the disappointment in my voice. 

Peeta's father shakes his head and holds out a white bag, smelling of sugar and flour.

“No, I'm where I’m supposed to be, I think. Can I come in?” 

I move to the side and he steps in, closing the door behind him. His eyes sweep over the wreckage I’ve created, but he doesn’t comment on it. I stand awkwardly in the corner, not at all sure why the baker has knocked on my door and not his own sons'.

“These are for you,” he says softly, pushing the bag into my hands. I take a peek inside. Cookies. Golden-brown sugar cookies in the shape of flowers, topped with delicate white icing. I can’t remember the last time I’ve even tasted a treat like this. I’ve traded at the baker's backdoor before, but always for bread, essential sustenance. Cakes and cookies, sweet things, those were never things we could afford.

“Thank you,” I say. The question in my tone makes him raise his mouth in a half-smile. 

“You would have been far too young to remember much about the last Games, but this is a Mellark tradition. I’ve always given our tributes these. You know, before…” He lets the end of his sentence hang in the air. The rest is too much to say aloud. I nod, rolling the bag back up and holding onto it tightly. 

“Peeta made them this year, actually. Wanted to make sure I wouldn’t forget,” Mr. Mellark says. The pain in his voice is palpable. I can’t blame him. There’s a terrible irony in the situation. The bag is still warm. Peeta must have gotten up early to make them this morning, unaware that he was baking for himself. 

We lapse into a silence that’s not entirely uncomfortable, before the baker pats me on the shoulder and says he should head back to his son. 

“Your family should be here any minute, anyhow. They were in line behind us for the temp checks,” he says. I can’t help but breathe out a sigh of relief. Temperature checks. Of course. It makes sense that they would check everyone for signs of infection before they let them in here. Too many important people and Capitol citizens afoot. 

Mr. Mellark turns to leave, his hand resting on the door. He hesitates before looking over his shoulder.

“Your mother, and your sister. They'll be looked after while you’re gone. You tell your sister to come see me.” 

With that, he departs, my thank-you still on my tongue. I can see now where Peeta gets his kindness from. The Mellarks have no reason to take care of my family, no debt they owe us. Perhaps this is because my mother tended to Peeta, or just because there isn’t a soul that’s met her who doesn’t love Prim. In either case, I feel a little lighter with the knowledge that they’ll have help, and not for the first time, I'm left wondering how such a gentle man like Mr. Mellark ended up with a cruel woman for a wife.

The door has barely closed when it’s thrown open again. No knock this time. Prim flies into the room, barrelling into me and attaching herself to my waist. Her homemade mask dangles from one ear. Mother follows behind her, looking haunted and pale.

“Katniss, why?” Prim cries into my shirt. “You can't leave! You shouldn’t have done that!” 

I shush her, running my hands over her braids. We don’t have time for all of this emotion. The time I have to explain how to live without me is already far too short. I pull her away from me and hold her at arm's length, staring directly into her eyes.

“I had to, Prim. Now look, Gale will help you. He’ll bring you meat. You’ll have money from Mother's patients. I don’t know if they’ll bring back the tesserae, but if they do, do not take it. Do you understand?” 

Prim looks at me with wide eyes, her bottom lip trembling.

“Do you understand, Prim?” I ask again, shaking her shoulders. I need her to know how important this is. She nods at me fervently, saying she does, she does.

“Good. You need to stay in school, and you need to be careful. You need to be so careful, Prim. Never go beyond the fence alone, okay? And if someone comes to you for medicine or healing, you make sure they’re not bitten. I can’t be there to protect you from the infected anymore. If they look sick, you tell them to stay away, you hear me?”

I know my words are scaring her, and I can see my face reflected in her eyes, all black pupils and sweaty skin. To her credit, my little sister doesn’t shy away. She brings her little hands up to cup my face, nuzzling me with her nose like she used to when she was just a toddler.

“Okay Katniss, I will. I’ll be careful, I promise. But you have to promise me something, too,” she says. “You have to promise me that you’ll try. That you’ll try really hard to come back home.”

I can’t answer her. My throat has constricted to the point where speaking has become impossible. Instead, I crush her to my chest, wrapping my arms around this beanpole of a child and hoping that it’s enough for her to know that I will. I will try my hardest to come back home for her. 

My mother, who hasn’t said a word since they’ve arrived, steps forward to envelope us both in a hug. Her tears fall into my hair, and they break the dam. A cracked chorus of I Love You's and I'll Miss You's and Be Good's pour from our lips. I’m not much of a feelings person, but there’s no way I can stop them now. My mother squeezes tightly, rocking us both like little children. Her gentle swaying brings me back to a time a long time ago, and I pull away to give my last order.

“You cannot leave again,” I tell my mother. It comes out raw, the anger of all the years left alone in my voice. She looks taken aback but doesn’t argue.

“I won't,” she says softly. “I have my business, and my medicine.”

This is true. My mother has really come out of her shell now that the townspeople need her healing powers again. I’ve also seen her swallow pills every morning that seem to keep her sadness at bay. 

“Keep taking it then,” I reply. My voice is as authoritative as I can make it. “You have to stay. You have to be present, no matter what happens on the screen. You are all Prim has left. No one else can look after you both.”

My mother nods her understanding. There’s a coldness in her now that I wish I didn’t conjure, but I have to be sure that she doesn’t fade into the darkness again, no matter what happens to her oldest daughter. Prim latches onto me, getting as close as she can in her last moments with me. All too soon, a peace keeper arrives at the door to tell us our time is up. More hugs and I Love You's, and then they’re gone. 

Gale is the last one to say goodbye. The moment I see him, all the uncertainty about our relationship ceases to matter. I run to him and throw myself in his arms. His heart beats steadily against my ear, and we stay quiet for a few moments. 

“Gale, I'm sorry,” I say from his chest.

“Don’t,” he interjects, pulling away to look at me. “Don’t apologize. I know you had to do this. I'd do the same.”

“You'll look after Prim?” I ask him.

“Only until you’re back here,” he says, “then she’s all yours again.”

“Gale…” I can’t let him talk like this. Like I’ll ever come home. Like I ever had a chance. 

“No Katniss,” he says, his voice rising. “You can do this. You have a good shot. Get yourself a bow, find the trees. Half those kids have probably never killed a thing in their life. You can hunt, keep yourself fed.”

“You don’t know what will be in the arena,” I argue, “there might not even be weapons.” The message from President Snow that Effie Trinket read out to us echoes in my head. The Game Makers are confident that it will be an even playing ground. What does that even mean?

“There's always weapons,” Gale says earnestly. “And besides, you’re going into this with a weapon already.” He grabs my wrist, pressing into my scar until it burns. 

“Use it,” he says, “take it out on the right things.” 

I swallow and nod. The virus. If there was ever a time when it could be a blessing and not a curse, this would be it. There’s no way to know how many other tributes are immune, but I know my condition is rare. The likelihood of facing others like me is slim. If I don’t exhaust myself, it may give me a much-needed edge.

The rest of our time together is spent with my pleas to keep my family safe and Gale's constant reassurances.

“I will, Katniss. You know I will,” he says for the fourth or fifth time. “They’ll be alright. We'll all be okay.”

“You be careful too, out there,” I say. “Don't give up.” 

“I won't. I can’t,” he says softly. He grabs me to him again in another embrace, but he’s just as soon ripped away from me. A peace keeper's gloved hand is on his shoulder, pulling him back out of the room. Our time must be up. 

“No, wait!” I cry, trying in vain to pull him back to me. Tributes are given one hour with their loved ones before being whisked away to the Capitol for training, but it feels like I’ve only had ten minutes. 

“Get a bow! Find the trees! Use the virus!” Gale shouts, struggling with the guard. The white-cloaked arm grabs him around the neck, hauling him away.

“Remember Katniss, I-” The door slams in his face, and what Gale is or what he wants to tell me, I’ll never know.

I’m left alone for a few more minutes, and I use the time to wipe my face, to re-braid my hair. I attempt to make myself look as put together as possible before I reach more cameras. Those feeds will be broadcast to the entire country, and I cannot afford to look weak.

Effie comes to collect me, making small talk about how extravagant the train we'll be taking will no doubt seem to me, and how she can’t wait to see my face when I see my room. I’m led out another back door to be pushed into a sleek black car. It’s not a long commute from the town square to the train station, and it seems like a ridiculous power move to drive rather than walk. I’ve never ridden in a car before, and the weightless feeling of travelling on wheels rather than feet unnerves me.

When we reach the train station, I feel gratified that I took the time to clean myself up. Cameras flash from all over the platform, Capitol reporters jostling each other to get a picture of the new tributes. When he steps out of the car behind me, it's clear that Peeta Mellark hadn’t thought of this. His face is red and splotchy, his eyes puffy and bloodshot. Sure signs that he’s let his emotions run freely during his goodbyes. Better him than me, I think, as we’re positioned at the front of the crowd together for more photos. All the flashing lights are blinding, and when I finally see the body running towards me, my first instinct is to defend. 

My fists lower when I see that it's Madge who's approached, her face all business. She strides up to me and grabs my hand as if to shake it.

“My father let me come with him to see you off,” she explains into my ear. “I had to make sure you got this.”

She squeezes my hand and something hard and cold pushes against it. I try to look down discretely, and see that it’s a small, gold pin. 

“You’re allowed one item with you in the arena,” she whispers, “one personal item. I can’t explain why, but I need you to wear this. Please.”

I tell her I will, and Madge departs back into the sea of reporters with a chaste kiss on my cheek. I slip the pin into my pocket, putting it to memory to inspect it later. In my growing list of things to worry about, a personal item to have during the games didn’t even make the cut. However, Madge has always been kind to me, and this seems incredibly important to her. What harm could it do?

When the crowd has had their fill of us, Effie ushers us onto the waiting train. It’s not one of the rickety, old sulphur-smelling carts that hauls the district's exports of coal away, but a smooth, silver vessel that reminds me of a bullet. It will bring us to the Capitol in no time, I'm told, and I can’t help but wish we were boarding the trains of old. 

Effie tells Peeta and I that we’re welcome to go and do whatever we want until dinner. It’s a strange feeling, to feel trapped like a caged animal while being told we have all the freedom in the world. I find myself following Peeta, for a lack of anything else to do, and he leads us to the caboose. 

“Well, here we go,” he says, more to himself than me, as the wheels underneath us pick up speed. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass window, I watch the only home I’ve ever known disappear at a lightning-fast pace. Coal dust trails us, kicked up by the wheels. It may just be my imagination, but it feels like the heat leaches out of my veins the farther away we get. I imagine Prim, shivering and crying on the walk back home, and a shudder travels down my back. Peeta takes a step closer, like he wants to comfort me. I can’t let that happen, so I turn on my heel, leaving him alone. On my way out of the car, I sense, more than see, ragged bodies chasing the train, trying fruitlessly to catch us before we’re gone. We must be past the last security fence. I shake my head, moving through the train to find my quarters, and I can’t help but feel that, like us, those bodies are going the wrong way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, but I had to break up the "goodbyes" and the beginning of the next, otherwise it would have been uncomfortably long. Thanks for reading! I truly appreciate those of you who have left feedback thus far!


	8. Some Advice

I’m grateful that I’ve found my room without Effie's help, if only to keep her from gloating at being right about my shock. While small, this compartment is yet another room that looks more luxurious than any other I’ve been in. The single bed is adorned with a thick comforter and fluffy down pillows. The carpet is so thick my boots feel like they’re sinking into it. The ornate wooden drawers and adjacent closet are stuffed with clothes that look brand new. The only thing that reminds me of the reason why I'm here is the window: barred and locked from the outside.

I kick my boots off at the door and toss my jacket on the bed. The leather looks even more faded and worn against the stark white of the blanket. I walk cautiously around the room, exploring my surroundings. To the left is another door. I push it open slowly and to my delight, realize I’ve been given my own bathroom. 

The soles of my feet slap against warm tile as I stare in awe. The bathroom is just as big as our entire bedroom back home. I turn in a slow circle and catch myself in the mirror. Though I scrubbed until I was red this morning, I still feel dull and dirty in this pristine environment. The sky is still light outside the window, so I figure I have enough time before dinner to experience my very first shower. We don’t have running hot water in Twelve, but I know of the contraptions from school. After a few confusing minutes of pushing random buttons, I step into a cloud of steam. It feels like being caught in a warm, enjoyable rainstorm. I have to admit, this is one aspect of the Capitol lifestyle I can get behind. 

After what has definitely been too long, I step out and wrap myself in a fluffy robe that hangs on the back of the door. Rummaging through the dresser drawers, I find a pair of black pants and a plain green shirt. I pull them on, marvelling at how soft the material is; not at all like the scratchy home-made clothing I'm used to. I notice that a row of shoes has been laid out for me at the bottom of the closet as well, but all of them are either sky-high like Effie's or otherwise delicate and painful looking. I dismiss them all and tug my boots back on. I’m in the process of braiding my hair down my back when there’s a knock on my door, calling me to dinner.

I follow a Capitol attendant who doesn’t speak to the dining car. Peeta is already there, still dressed in his white button-up. He looks up when I enter and gives me a half-smile. There’s an empty chair beside him that must be meant for me, but I choose to sit on the other side of the table, further away from his kindness.

“Where’s Haymitch?” I ask Effie, the only other person in the room whom I recognize.

“He said something about taking a nap when we boarded,” Peeta answers for her. Effie sniffs in disapproval. I suppose she knows as well as Peeta and I do that it’s far more likely that he's found a bottle than a bed. Haymitch is a recluse in Twelve, but everyone in town knows two things about him: he’s a Victor and an alcoholic. 

The conversation about our mentor's whereabouts dies when the food arrives. Waiters bring in huge, steaming plates of roasted meat, vegetables in creamy sauces, buttery rolls and thick, spicy soups in course after course. I help myself to some of everything. I’ve never in my life laid eyes on this much food at once. I notice that even Peeta, who grew up in a merchant's house and must have had more to eat at home than I did, is stuffing himself full. Effie tells us to pace ourselves, that there’s even more to come. 

“At least you two have some decent table manners,” she says. “The last tributes I had ate entirely with their hands like savages. It’s been over ten years and I can still remember the mess they made.”

I immediately put my knife and fork down. I wonder if she remembers ‘the mess they made' when they were both killed in the games. The last tributes of District Twelve before us had been two Seam kids, children of Father's friends. A faint memory of the girl rises in front of me, terribly skinny and frail. She had never in her life had enough to eat. The ignorance of Effie's comment makes my blood boil. How dare she make fun of poor children for filling their stomachs full for the first time? I’ve suddenly lost my appetite, the insatiable hunger replaced with heavy guilt when I think of Prim and Mother. Their meager meals of game meat and greens will have to be rationed even more now that I'm not there to keep the supply up. The fact that the government food supply has been cancelled for the districts when this much food can be spared for one meal is sickening.

I push my plate away and ask to be excused. Effie tells me yes, but to be sure to meet everyone in the lounge to watch the rest of the reapings in a half hour. I stand up to go, but am immediately thrown back into my seat when the train lurches to a stop. Plates and cutlery slide to the floor, sending food splattering everywhere.

“Didn’t we just refuel not too long ago?” Peeta asks, wiping mashed potatoes from his sleeve. He’s answered by six echoing pops. Gunshots. My hackles raise instinctively, and I immediately grab for my dinner knife, the closest weapon in my proximity.

“Oh dear, no need to make a fuss. There’s probably zombies on the tracks again,” Effie says distractedly, sopping up her spilled wine with a napkin. I glare at her in confusion.

“What’s a zombie?” I ask.

“Stupid Capitol slang,” a gruff voice from behind me says. “She means the infected.”

Haymitch stumbles into the dining car, roused by either the smell of food or the gunfire. Effie chooses to ignore him and answers me instead.

“Oh yes, of course, you wouldn’t know,” she titters, “It turns out the people of before, when Panem was North America, imagined creatures very similar to those affected by the virus. A few old books and films about them were discovered recently. They called them zombies.”

I stare at her, perturbed. I’ve only ever seen one film before. It was in black and white and had no sound. The Mayor set up a projector in the town square for public viewing, but the concept was lost on me and most of the other citizens, and the event was never repeated. How anyone could think of, much less watch on a screen for entertainment, monsters like the ones we deal with I can’t imagine. The whole idea sounds sinister. But then again, in just a few short days I'll be fighting for my life for the Capitol's viewing pleasure. Effie must mistake my look of disgust for awe, because she giggles at me and continues.

“Oh yes, it’s quite astounding, the crazy things our ancestors thought up. I actually managed to procure a copy of one of the films myself. It’s quite violent, but perhaps I’ll send for it once we're in the Capitol. Might be some inspiration!” 

I catch Peeta's eye from across the table and see that I'm not alone in my skepticism. Between training and interviews and trying to figure out how to keep ourselves alive, I highly doubt a movie night fits in the schedule. 

Thankfully, we’re saved from having to explain this to Effie by a loud whistle, followed by the screech of the wheels on the track. We’re moving again. I place my dinner knife back on the table and rise again to leave the room. I’ve only gone two steps when I'm forced to jump backwards to avoid Haymitch's vomit, which spews all over the carpet and mixes with the spilled food. My stomach clenches tightly and I force myself not to gag at the smell.

“Guess I missed dinner,” he says and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He turns around and immediately walks back the way he came. Effie huffs indignantly and motions for a Capitol attendant to clean up the mess.

I follow Haymitch out and return to my room. I feel queasy from all the rich food and the events that came after it, and pick my jacket up off the bed to lie down for a few minutes. Something small and round falls out of the pocket. I bend down to pick it up and realize it's Madge's pin. 

I sink into the bed and examine the thing closely for the first time. It’s made to look like a tiny bird, it’s wings stretched out in mid-flight. A golden circle, tarnished by time, encompasses it, attached to the bird's wingtips. Upon closer inspection, I realise it’s a mockingjay. I wonder where Madge would have gotten something like this. Mockingjays have always been a bit of a slap in the face to the Capitol's authority.

The birds are common in Twelve, and probably in most of the other districts, too. They’re descendants of jabberjays, one of the Capitol's many genetically-altered animal experiments that were invented during the rebellion. They called them muttations, or ‘mutts’ for short, and they were bred to be weaponized. There’s been rumours circulating for years that it was a muttation gone wrong that caused the virus in the first place, but no proof of that has ever been discovered. 

These particular bird-mutts were created with the intent of spying on the rebels during the war; homing birds with the capability to memorize and repeat any conversation they heard. Of course, this only worked for a little while before the rebels figured them out, and started sending false messages back to throw off the Capitol military. When the Capitol realised their weapon had backfired and the birds were rendered useless, they abandoned them in the wild, expecting them to die off. Instead, they bred with the mockingbirds, evolving into the mockingjays we see today. These new birds have lost the ability of real speech, but they’re able to mimic birdsong and other simple human sounds. My father loved them. He would sing to them while we were in the forest, sometimes for fun and sometimes to distract and confuse the undead. They must have loved his voice as much as I did, because the mockingjays never failed to pick up his melodies. They’d carry them through the trees and pass them along to more of their kind until the whole forest was alive with music. Those are my happiest memories, singing along with my father and his birds. My own singing voice isn’t terrible, but I could never bring myself to continue singing after he died. The act was always too painful. Still, this pin is a symbol of comforting memories, and I attach it to my shirt carefully. Against the green of the fabric, it almost looks like it’s flying freely through the trees at home.

There's a knock on my door and I rise from the bed to answer it. Peeta stands on the other side of the doorway.

“Effie says it’s time to watch the other reapings,” he says. 

I follow him down the train's corridor and into a room with a giant screen and a bunch of soft, plush couches and chairs. Haymitch is slouched in one of them, snoring loudly and clutching a bottle of dark liquid to his chest. I perch on the end of the couch in the center of the room, trying to squeeze myself into the armrest as much as I can when Peeta sits down heavily beside me. Effie enters the room, her high heels clicking, and kicks Haymitch's foot to wake him up.

“What?” he growls, waving the bottle violently in front of him. The liquid inside slops onto his lap and sinks into the carpet. 

“It’s time to watch the other reapings,” Effie announces. “You may want to be awake for them, seeing as it’s our first look at the other competitors.”

Haymitch only grunts in reply. Effie picks up a small, black rectangle, points it at the screen, and clicks a button. The screen comes to life, blaring the national anthem.

“Oh good,” she says, “it looks like we’ve caught a repeat from the beginning.”

Every district's reaping is televised live to the Capitol, Effie tells us, but they’re also repeatedly shown for the next twenty-four hours. Presumably, this is done for those who have defence shifts during the first showing. The rerun begins with the first of the twelve districts, and I settle in to see exactly who will be trying to kill me.

The first thing I notice is that District One's town square looks far more distinguished than ours. The camera pans over the crowd and all I see are healthy, well-fed faces. The crowd looks generally curious and excited, not terrified and apprehensive like I'd expect. When the district mentor calls out the first tribute's name, there’s multiple shouts of people willing to volunteer. I wonder if the pandemic has even touched their lives.

The reaping for the next few districts carry on in similar fashion. Some have volunteers, some don't. Only a handful of tributes stand out from the rest. A monstrous boy from District Two literally tackles his way to the stage. A mutilated strip of scar tissue replaces his left ear, and there’s no question about it: he has the mark to prove his immunity. The tributes from the third, fourth and fifth districts don’t look like anything special, but the female tribute from Six looks sly and intelligent. She has a face like a fox. I don’t see any physical indicators of immunity, but something tells me I shouldn’t discount her in the arena. There’s a boy from district nine who limps to the stage on a twisted, deformed foot. I have mixed feelings about him; half of me pities him, because I know he won’t last long, but the other half sighs in relief. At least I know he won’t be a threat. 

The footage of District Ten's reaping ceremony is only half the length of the others. The male tribute is still walking up the steps to shake hands with his mentor when screams cut through the crowd. The camera pans to the left to see what’s going on, and the feed switches immediately to the Capitol announcers sitting in a studio somewhere. They chuckle nervously and one of them exclaims that the excitement is high in Ten, but I’m sure they saw what I did before the view was cut off. The infected, barrelling through bodies and spraying blood and viscera from their mouths. Peeta stiffens beside me, and to his right, Haymitch sits up a little straighter and purses his lips. 

“Oh my,” Effie says from behind hands that have covered her mouth in shock. Looking at her, I get the strange feeling that this may have been her first real glimpse of the undead. I realise that they hadn’t even picked the female tribute before the dead attacked, and I wonder grimly if that means there will be one less tribute to worry about. It’s a terribly selfish thought, but the less children there are in the arena, the greater my chances are of coming home again.

The screen in front of us shows us another town square: District Eleven's. This scene is more familiar to me, but that doesn’t give me any pleasure. Dirty children hold their breath, lined in rows on the dusty blacktop. A hulking giant of a boy is called forward, but it’s the girl who holds my attention. She can’t be older than twelve, with skinny limbs and wild, dark curls that bounce off her shoulders when she walks. She stands beside her male counterpart, dwarfed in his shadow, and her stance makes her look like a bird about to take flight. Physically, they hardly look anything alike, but I can’t help but think of Prim when I look at this tiny girl. My heart aches when the crowd remains silent. No one volunteers to take her place.

Last on the broadcast lineup is District Twelve. I watch Prim's name get called again, watch her take those tiny, brave steps to certain death. I hear my own voice screaming to volunteer for her. There’s no denying the panic the words are drenched in. I see myself walking up the steps, Gale following silently behind me, grabbing Prim when she reaches out for me. I watch myself move past them, up the steps to take my place beside Haymitch. The commentators go wild when Effie points out my bite mark. 

“Well, that’s two confirmed,” one of them says jovially, “I wonder how that will skew the bets!”

“Guess that’s all we can hope for, now that Princess here blew your cover,” Haymitch slurs, pointing with his bottle at our escort. “Better hope the sponsors find that bite as interesting as she does.”

I mull over his words for a moment. Effie did blow my cover. My scar is easy enough to hide with a long-sleeved shirt. If she hadn’t announced it to the whole country, I could have hidden my immunity until I was in the arena and used it to my advantage. Now, every other tribute will know what I'm capable of, and I'll be a target from day one. I glare up at Effie, and decide that I hate her.

“Well, really,” she sputters, going red in the face. “I was only curious! How was I supposed to know?” 

“It's okay, Effie,” Peeta placates, “you couldn’t have known you weren’t supposed to say anything…” I turn my glare on him, and he silences himself immediately. I know Peeta only means to be kind, as always, but I’m angry at him anyway. Honestly, hiding my immunity hadn’t even been my plan until just now, but knowing that it’s no longer a possibility causes a surge of white hot fury to roll through me. Once the Peeta on screen quietly takes his place on the stage, I jump up from the couch.

“I’m tired. Can I go?” I ask no one in particular. When there are no objections, I stomp to the doorway. As I pass him, Haymitch pushes himself out of the chair and mumbles something about going to bed, too. His foot catches on a side table, and for the second time today I'm forced to jump out of his way as he goes down hard. His liquor bottle rolls away from him, staining the carpet as it goes. Effie lets out an indignant squeal when some of the liquid gets on her shoes. Peeta catches my eye, and we both have to stifle laughter.

“Oh yes, very funny,” Effie hisses. “Do you know how expensive these heels were? I had them custom-made!”

“Oh no, Effie, it’s not that,” Peeta explains, “it's just…Haymitch.” He gestures at the man on the floor, who has curled up where he is and has started snoring again. Effie sniffs, her face turning ugly.

“Well, you may find it hilarious, dear, but let me remind you that this,” she snarls, pointing down at Haymitch, “is your only lifeline between the arena and your sponsors in the outside world. Good luck!” 

With that, Effie steps over Haymitch and prances out of the room. I sigh, because I know she’s right. The rich Capitol citizens have always placed bets on the tributes. To better their chances, they’re allowed to ‘sponsor' us, by donating money to our mentors. The mentors can send their tributes valuable food and supplies with that money, and I know that could be the difference between life and death. In my school lessons, I learned that most of Twelve's tributes often went without any gifts, and now I can see why. The antagonistic drunk doesn’t really fit the description of who the rich would want to associate with.

Peeta stands from the couch and crouches over Haymitch's sleeping form. He looks like he’s deciding on how best to pick him up. I stay in the doorway and cross my arms. I chew on my bottom lip, deciding if I should help or not. I suppose I should try to get on Haymitch's good side before I'm thrown into the arena, but the chances of him even remembering this event are slim to none. Peeta looks up at me, giving me a shy smile.

“Thought you already left,” he says. “you go to bed, I’ll deal with him.”

“I can call one of the attendants to help,” I offer.

“No, don't,” he says quickly. “I don’t want their help.”

I don’t blame him. The many attendants that shuffle silently through the train corridors all give me an uneasy feeling that I can’t explain. Perhaps it’s just the fact that it’s been obvious that they hate waiting on two kids from a dirty, poor district. I shrug and head back to my room, leaving Peeta to it. On my way, I wonder if he’s had the same thought I did, and that he’s trying to get in Haymitch's good books before I do. I curse and turn around, about to make my way back to help, when it hits me that Peeta is just being himself: kind and helpful. I need him to stop doing that. The more Peeta proves himself as a nice person, the harder it will be for me to distance myself from him. I have an unfortunate habit of keeping the kind ones close. 

When I reach my room, I lock the door and throw myself on the bed. I wasn’t lying when I said I was tired. It's insane that only this morning I was standing in District Twelve, worried about the futures of Prim and Gale. It’s too dark to see anything but the stars through the window, but one thing is for certain: I have never been this far from home, and getting back there seems more and more impossible the further the train rolls. I don’t bother looking for night clothes, instead I just shed the ones I'm wearing and burrow under the covers. I know immediately that sleep won’t take me. I lie awake, pressing my face into the pillow, waiting for the tears to come. I’m not surprised when they don’t – I’ve only felt numb since we boarded the train. 

My thoughts wander to Prim and Mother. Did they eat today? Are they safe? Are they lying awake in bed too? I’m almost positive that Prim will curl up to my mother tonight, and probably every night after for the duration of the games. I breathe in deep and desperately hope that my mother keeps her promise to stay.

I begin to think about how Gale must be feeling, but I stop that train of thought in its tracks. It’s too confusing to think about him, and too painful now, to know that I am going to die without ever having had the chance to really explore how I feel about him. I remember that he’s due to leave on his first military mission in a few days, and decide that the knot in my stomach his name creates is because of my worry for him and nothing else.

No matter how comfortable this bed is, I toss and turn throughout the rest of the night. I think I manage to fall asleep for a few moments just as the sun peeks through my window, but I’m abruptly woken again by a rapt knocking on my door. It’s Effie, who insists that I get “up, up, up” because we’ve got a “big, big, big day” ahead of us. I groan and roll over, relishing the warmth for as long as I can. Eventually, I throw the covers back and dress myself in the same clothes from yesterday. It seems a waste to dirty any others. Besides, it won’t matter for long. We'll reach the Capitol in just an hour or so, and then I’ll be thrown to the wolves they call stylists. 

I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror for a long while, trying to memorize my own features as I know them. I’ve never given much thought to my appearance, but I know that traditionally, tributes are given full makeovers to make them more appealing to the audience. Who knows what I will look like by the end of today. It seems entirely pointless to me. Will being prettier make me faster or stronger? Will the other tributes think twice about gutting me if they think I’m beautiful? I suppose the Capitol citizens might throw more money at me if they think I'm nice to look at, but that’s a level of degradation I don’t think I can handle with much grace. 

When I’ve had my fill of the face in the mirror, I lace up my boots and head to the dining car. I’m the last one there, and the air is tense. Effie cowers in the corner, holding a steaming mug of coffee in front of her like a shield. Haymitch and Peeta face each other, both red-faced and breathing hard. Our mentor's face is wet, orange liquid dripping down his chin. Peeta's lost his calm demeanor, his face set in an angry snarl. Another bruise is slowly spreading across his jaw.

“Oh good, you’re up,” he says when he sees me enter the room. His temper doesn’t sound like it’s directed towards me, but I subtly shift into a defensive stance anyway, just in case.

“What’s going on?” I ask warily. 

“Maybe you’ll have better luck,” Peeta responds, turning back on Haymitch. “I just asked our trusty mentor here if he has a plan for us, you know, before we’re thrown into a death match, but I don’t think his answer was very helpful.” 

“What did he say?” I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know. Given Peeta's reaction, I have a strong feeling that whatever guidance Haymitch has to give us won’t boost my spirits any. An awkward silence fills the room, and Peeta's passion seems to falter. 

“Tell her what you told me,” he says, nodding with his chin at the older man. To my surprise, Haymitch starts chuckling. He wipes his face and holds his belly, guffawing at both of us. He turns to me with bleary eyes.

“Don’t know what you’re expectin’, Sweetheart. You want my advice?” he asks. “Well, it’s been the same damn thing for twenty years, and virus or not, it ain't gonna change. I'm tellin’ you the same thing I told the kid: Stay alive. And if you can’t do that, well, find a way to die quick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I realize this has been a bit of a slow burn so far, (eight chapters in and they're not even in the games yet!) but I've had a lot of fun fleshing out Katniss' life and motivations pre-games. If you like what's going on so far, please stick around because in my heavily biased opinion, things will get a little more crazy pretty soon!


	9. Companionship

I wish I could say that the wooden panel behind Haymitch's head that the knife sticks into is my intended target. In truth, my rage at him and his sorry excuse for advice is so blinding that when I grab the blade off the breakfast table and fling it at him, my hand shakes so badly it throws off my aim. Instead of sinking into his forehead, the knife whips past his ear and hits the wall with a thunk. It’s an automatic response.

As soon as the hilt leaves my fingertips, I brace myself for a violent reaction. Undoubtedly, I've just lost any chance I had to make a good impression. I can’t imagine that trying to stab my mentor has done me any favours when it comes time for him to decide who gets resources in the arena. Not that it matters much, I suppose. He’s essentially just told Peeta and I that we’re on our own. But besides that, I may have just subjected myself to some form of substantial punishment. Are there any rules about tributes causing bodily harm to their superiors? I can’t recall ever learning about that in school. 

Everyone freezes in place, all sound sucked from the room. Even Effie, who’s been whimpering behind her coffee cup since I showed up, has gone silent. Haymitch stares at me with mild shock for a tense moment. Slowly, he pivots to take in the sight of the knife, still quivering in the panel. Peeta shifts slightly to the left when Haymitch turns his head, and I notice with exasperation that he’s trying to put himself in-between us. This boy is caring to a fault, and it’s going to get him killed sooner rather than later. I clear my throat, paste what I hope is a defiant look on my face, and await the wrath of Haymitch Abernathy. Defying all my expectations, the man lets out a low whistle and turns back to me with a grin.

“Well, there’s the fire I was expectin' from someone like you. Certainly less surprising than the Baker's boy over here.” 

Haymitch crosses his arms and leans back, observing Peeta and I and our matching stunned expressions. The outrage I expected is absent, replaced with an appraising look that I’ve seen the butcher in the Hob give to livestock waiting to be sold. 

“Well, how ‘bout that. Looks like we might have ourselves a couple of real fighters this year after all,” he muses. He starts to circle us, poking and prodding at our arms, our bellies, our cheeks, muttering things under his breath and nodding periodically. Peeta stands a little straighter, jutting his chin out in a sort of silent challenge. I don’t recoil at Haymitch's touch, though it’s a struggle not to, especially when his jagged fingernail pushes into my scar.

“Okay,” he says when he’s finished his evaluation. “You've got more muscle than I thought. A couple more days of Capitol food will put some more meat on your bones. Once the stylists get their claws in you, you’ll be attractive enough. Pretty obvious the both of you have a bit of a violent streak.” 

Peeta looks indignant at the last remark, but Haymitch dismisses him with a wave of his hand.

“That’s a good thing. Don’t you know where you’re headed, boy?” 

Peeta studies the floor, looking very much like he wants to argue over whether or not ‘good’ is the right word. His expression makes me oddly self-conscious. Haymitch turns his attention to me.

“Knives are your thing then?” 

“They’re okay,” I respond, “but I'm better with a bow.” 

That’s the truth. Knives are essential defence tools in our world, and everyone back home always has at least one of them on hand at all times in case of emergencies. Every kid gets a simple blade when they enter training, and we take courses on how to properly take down the undead with one. Father gave me my own knife when I was a child and I've gotten pretty good at wielding it, but the bow is my weapon of choice. Gale always said no animal or monster stood a chance when I had an arrow nocked. 

Haymitch shrugs. “No guarantee you’ll get your hands on a bow in the arena, but if you find one, all the better. Hope your aim's better with an arrow than with one of these.” 

He pulls the blade from the wall, wiggling it and cursing when it doesn’t come loose immediately. He stumbles back a few paces when it finally lets go of the wood. Still, with a weapon in his hands, I'm suddenly wary again. He twirls the knife between his fingers, and I worry that perhaps he still has a mind to retaliate. Haymitch may be old and drunk more often than not, but I have to remember that he was also cunning and dangerous enough to become a victor. I watch him carefully, but when he lets the weapon go, it’s only to toss it gently to Peeta, who winces but manages to catch it by the hilt.

“What about you, kid?” He asks, “What do you use?”

Peeta makes a show of inspecting the knife while he thinks. I assume, with his military training, that he’s mentally cataloguing all the weapons I'm sure he’s handled. The militia members have all been trained on guns – weapons no one else in the district is even allowed to touch. I highly doubt the game makers will allow automatic weapons in the arena, as the games would be far too short that way, but I wouldn’t blame Peeta for using this as an opportunity to brag.

“I think I'm probably best at hand-to-hand combat,” he finally says. “I was on the wrestling team in school, back when there was one.” 

This answer is not at all what I expected, and clearly it’s surprised Haymitch, too. His blond eyebrows shoot up his forehead.

“Aren’t you on the Scout team, kid? I heard them talkin’ about you in the Hob when you got accepted. All the best weapons the district has at your disposal and you’re talkin' about wrestling someone to death?” 

Peeta just shrugs, passing the knife from hand to hand.

“I’m just the most comfortable with it, I guess,” he murmurs. “But I’ve had training on other weapons, too.”

Haymitch raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push for more.

“Alright, I’ll make you two a deal. You don’t mess with my liquor,” he looks pointedly at Peeta, “and I’ll do what I can to help you. Let’s be clear, though. I can’t promise you it’ll do you any good. The last time I did this was well before the dead decided they weren’t done livin’. The whole game’s changed, and I don’t know any more about what’s comin’ than you do. I’ll teach you what I know, and you figure it out from there. Got it?”

I nod once to show my acknowledgement. I’m still not very assured, but at least it's more help than we had ten minutes ago. Effie, who seems to have sensed that the danger has passed, sets her cup on the table and claps her hands.

“Great! Now that that’s taken care of, we must discuss the schedule over breakfast. We'll be in the Capitol in less than an hour, and it's going to be a big, big, big day!” 

It amazes me how quickly she can snap back into her professional role. I start to wonder what must go on in that big-haired head of hers, but decide I don’t want to go down that road. We take our places at the table, which has been set with a momentous amount of food. Haymitch immediately fills his glass with orange juice from a pitcher. He pulls a flask from the front pocket of his shirt and pours whatever is inside into the cup until it reaches the brim, staring Peeta down as he does. Effie offers us coffee, but I reject her. My mother adored it on the rare occasion we could afford it, but it tastes bitter and thin to me. The smell reminds me of her, and there’s too much to do today to feel homesick. 

“Here, try this,” Peeta says, pushing a mug of something brown and sweet-smelling at me. “They call it hot chocolate. It’s good.”

I take a tentative sip and find that he’s right. The warmth travels down to my belly, coating my throat with a sweetness that’s comforting. I wonder if this drink reminds Peeta of his family, and the chocolate cakes they made at the bakery that Prim always ogled over. It’s definitely a step up from coffee. I down the rest of it in one greedy gulp, not caring that it burns my tongue. I ask a silent waiter for a second cup and start to fill my plate. Haymitch made a good point about filling up on the Capitol food. Hunting and training has allowed me to stay more physically fit than the average seam brat, but gaining a few pounds while I can is important. There’s no telling how often I’ll fill my stomach once the games begin. 

“Now children,” Effie starts once our mouths are full, “you'll be meeting your stylists later today, but first you both have appointments with your prep teams.”

“Yeah, and you’re gonna hate what they do to you,” Haymitch butts in, “but here’s my first rule: whatever they want to do, don’t resist.”

I make a noise of protest around a mouthful of eggs. I’ve made my peace with losing my familiar appearance, but he makes it sound like we're in for a day full of pain. I can’t promise that the virus won’t rear its head at that.

“No excuses,” he snaps. “The prettiest tributes get the most sponsors, and you both need help in that department.”

Peeta looks over at me quickly and opens his mouth like he’s about to argue. I shake my head at him. Haymitch isn’t wrong. No one will look twice at two plain-faced poor kids. 

“Oh, it really isn’t so bad,” Effie says. “They’ve hired the best of the best for the re-installment. You’ll be prepped and polished and looking shiny and new in no time!” 

Four hours later and still nowhere close to looking shiny and new, I have to wonder exactly how time works for someone like Effie. 

My prep team, three of the most ridiculous looking humans I’ve ever laid eyes on, are babbling amongst themselves in their strange accent like I'm invisible, or something too stupid to understand them, like a rabbit. It makes no difference to me. Trying to keep up with their rapid-fire gossip has already exhausted me. They seem nice enough, but I’ve heard more intelligent conversation in the grunts and moans the undead make. I use this opportunity of being ignored to try and make sense of the technicolour fever dream I’ve just experienced called the Capitol. 

Peeta and I had been brought to the newly rebuilt Remake Centre sometime in the late morning. We were both already struck dumb and entirely overwhelmed by that point. All my lessons and textbooks and television viewings could never prepare me for the sheer volume of absurdity that made up the capital of Panem. 

Shortly after breakfast, our train had become shrouded in darkness. I had panicked, thinking that it had broken down, that somehow the undead were to blame for it. Haymitch had laughed and told me to take a look out the window. What I saw did not ease my anxiety.

Rock. Miles and miles of thousand-year-old stone that the train was speeding through via a man-made tunnel. The Capitol, the heart of Panem, stood beyond the tunnel; nestled and protected by the giant mountain range they used to call the Rockies. The tunnel we were in ran under the mountain, and the thought of being crushed by the weight of it all made the virus itch in my veins. Once we hit daylight again, neither Peeta or I could resist the temptation of running to the full-length window at the back of the train.

Blinding. That was my first impression of the biggest, wealthiest city in the country. Every sky-high building and every person walking in their shadow was a brilliant shade of one colour or another. Whereas everything in Twelve was some shade of grey or red, covered in a century's worth of coal dust or otherwise stained with blood, the Capitol had shone with striking vibrancy. One look at Peeta told me he was swept up in its charm, but I had thought it looked too perfect to feel real. The greens were too neon, the pinks too loud. The city looked like it was covering up something very dark with all its artificial hues. 

The great mountain grew smaller the closer we got to the Capitol train station, but even craning my neck as far back as I could, the peak was still hidden in clouds. The further we rode away from it, the more lonely I started to feel, like the last glimpse of anything natural to me was disappearing before my eyes.

I noticed something else very unfamiliar as we sped towards the city. There were no fences, no security, no worry about an attack here. It had all started to make sense, then. The tunnel we had just left was the only way in or out of the metropolis, save for aircraft that no district could afford. This had been the downfall of the rebels during the rebellion. There had been no way to breach the Capitol except for climbing over the mountain, which made for easy pickings and terribly difficult success. The undead must have run into this same problem. I thought of Effie, who had looked so horrified at the monsters in Eleven on the television. Of course she hadn’t ever seen the undead in action. She, and everyone else who lived on this side of the tunnel, had learned of the virus's effects in theory, never in practice. They were protected in ways the districts could never be. The thought had caused a hot pooling of jealousy in my stomach.

When we were close enough to see the Capitol citizens up close, I had pulled my head back from the window, not wanting to see the faces of those who would be rooting for my death just a few days from now. Peeta, I saw with disgust, was doing just the opposite. He smiled and waved at the people below, who had recognised a Tribute Train and were pointing and gawking at us like caged animals. When I cocked an eyebrow at him, he only shrugged.

“They might have money,” was his only response. 

It was then that I realised I had misread the boy who had thrown me that life-saving bread. What if there was more to his kindness, after all? Maybe I was right to think he had volunteered to help Haymitch at a low point, to be more memorable to our only outside help. Perhaps the way he seemed to argue for my sake was just so I would feel safe around him. His charm and his way with words had gotten him an early admission into the militia because the captain saw how easily he could break someone’s defences down. It wouldn’t be a dumb idea to try that tactic with the other tributes; the friendly, nice boy who lures you into thinking he’s not a threat, until he is. And with the way the crowd below us cheered at the glowing smiles he gave them, maybe, just maybe, his plan was starting to unfold already. All that meant for me, I realised, was that no matter how kind this boy had been to me, he was still planning on killing me.

I had pondered over what Peeta Mellark's plan was, (and by proxy, my lack of one) for longer than I'd like to admit. I thought about it during the flashes of cameras and screams of reporters at the train station. I thought about it as we were hustled into another black car to be taken to the Remake Centre. It was still nibbling at my brain when Effie introduced us to our prep teams, and it lingered still as I bit my lip and undressed for them as they asked without complaint. In fact, I'm still thinking about how to get ahead of Mellark's plan to kill me right up until the first sticky strip of cotton rips the hair from my calf.

“Oooh, I'm so sorry, sweetness!” Venia, a tiny woman with gold tattoos etched into her skin, wails at me. Her tone is airy, but I see the way her eyes flick from my face to my scar. 

My prep team had all squealed and shrieked when I pulled off my shirt, pointing at my wrist and gasping behind long, manicured nails. The three of them had nearly tripped over each other in their eagerness to get a close-up look, admitting that they’d never seen an ‘Immune' in person before. They talked about me, not to me, like I was some prize among the stylists. One of them, the male named Flavius who had hair the colour and consistency of blue air-spun candy, had told the others smugly that he couldn’t wait to brag about being on my team to the others at dinner. I had held my tongue, smiling politely and grinding my teeth as they worked on making me presentable. The virus had revolted and pulsed as they scrubbed my skin, dug the blood out from under my nails, plucked every stray eyebrow hair. I had made good on Haymitch's rule of not protesting through all of this, but I’d been concentrating so much on Peeta that I’ve forgotten to focus on battling my instincts when the pain hits.

“It's fine,” I tell Venia through tight lips. I force a polite smile and try to relax my face. I swallow the blood that escapes my bitten tongue and grip the sides of the table I sit on until my knuckles are white. I breathe through my nose and wait for the next strip of cloth to be pulled, urging the virus to stop its pleas for revenge. I stare at the plain white wall ahead of me, count to three, and allow them to continue removing my body hair. It’s a ridiculous concept, that being hairless somehow equates to beauty, but I won’t pretend to understand the point of that or anything else that’s been done to my body today. My only concern is that a layer of warmth is being taken from me just before I have to face the winter head-on.

Octavia, a round woman with dyed lavender skin and the third member of my prep team, giggles nervously and gives an obvious nod to the guards at the door. They conveniently showed up minutes after the discovery of my bite mark, and I wonder if every tribute has men with guns watching them, or if my immunity is granting me special treatment. They back away from the window, and the team continues their fussing. I hold it together for another hour until they proclaim that they’re finished, and that my stylist will be with me in a few minutes.

“You did great, babes!” Flavius grins at me from the doorway. “Well, actually, we did great. You almost look human, already. Cinna will be thrilled!” 

I thank the three of them for their help, which makes Octavia blush an odd shade of magenta, and wait for the man who will dictate how I'm presented to the Capitol crowds. I consider re-dressing, but assume that I'll have to disrobe again anyway and decide not to bother. I cross my arms over my chest and curse the shiver that runs down my spine. My prep team were such caricatures of real people that being naked in front of them didn’t phase me, but I have no knowledge of what kind of person my stylist will be. The vulnerability of meeting him without the cover of clothing makes me leery.

The man who enters the prep room is so quiet on his feet that I don’t even notice him at first. I'm so busy studying my toes, which have been painted a shocking shade of red, that when he greets me with a soft hello, I nearly leap off the table. He chuckles, a warm, low melody, and holds his hands out in peace. 

“I’m Cinna,” he says, “I’ll be your stylist.” 

“Hi.” 

I look him up and down, gauging the kind of person I'm dealing with. He's tall and willowy, with dark skin and eyes like honey. He has a calm, unconcerned demeanor, and he lets me take my time sizing him up. He’s dressed in a plain black suit, incredibly modest compared to the outfits of everyone else in this city, but the garments are cut to his frame perfectly. His face, unlike my prep team, is free of enhancements or make-up, except for a subtle hint of gold around his eyes. The effect is understated and polished, and if I'm honest, quite attractive. He’s quite literally the opposite of what I was expecting. 

“If you don’t mind standing, I'd like to have a quick look at what I'm working with.” 

I do as he asks, tilting my chin up and forcing my limbs to stop shaking. He circles me with narrowed eyes and a hand under his chin, but it’s not in a predatory way; more like an artist studying a blank canvas.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’m glad they didn’t touch your hair. You’ve been here all morning, you must be starving. Let's eat.”

I pull on the plain white robe that he offers me, cinch it tightly around my waist, and follow him into an adjacent room. He leads me to a plush couch that sits beside a massive glass window and sits on an identical one across from me, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers. Unsure of what I’m meant to do now, I clasp my hands in my lap and stare out the window. We're on a floor that’s high above street level, and the people going about their business outside look like neon dots. Still, even from up here, I can tell that there’s no rush in their movement. The underlying fear and readiness for an attack that I’ve grown up accustomed to isn’t present here. Those people down there, they live their lives with a kind of stability that I’ve only ever dreamed about. 

The smell of food snaps me out of my trance. I look around for the source, and see two steaming plates of creamy stew in front of us already. My eyes search the room, wondering how I've missed its arrival, until Cinna smiles and presses a button beside him, opening a hatch on the tabletop I hadn’t noticed. Two water glasses and a crystal jug rise from it, and he pours us both a drink. I take the glass from him with a shaking hand, equally enthralled and repulsed by what I've just seen. I would cut my own arm off for instant food like this, but it’s yet another embodiment of the lies the Capitol told us about the dwindling food supplies. Cinna must see the conflict in my face.

“This must all seem quite ridiculous to you,” he says, not un-kindly. I can’t think of a response that won't come off as rude, so I sort of shrug and take a sip of water to keep my hands busy. The stew smells delicious, but Cinna hasn’t started on his bowl yet, and I don’t know if I'm supposed to wait for him. 

“It’s okay, Katniss,” he soothes. “I know you don’t want to be here, but I'm only here to help. We're on the same team.”

I swallow, mulling his words over. He’s being paid to make me look nice by the same people who have ordered me to die. I don’t know if I would consider that helpful. Still, something about him compels me to believe what he says. Against my better judgement, I decide to let myself trust him, at least a little.

“Is this your first year?” I ask. It must be. He looks far too young to have been a stylist before the pandemic. That aside, the new stylists have always been given District Twelve, the poorest district with the hardest tributes to make appealing. 

“Yes,” Cinna confirms, “I volunteered. So I suppose we have something else in common.”

Something else. I stare at him over my bowl of stew. What could I possibly have in common with this man? His skin is dark, but not the olive tone that we're born with in the Seam. He’s dressed simply, but he’s still a Capitol citizen, and you need money to survive here. He’s thin, but not the kind of thin that comes and stays from lack of nutrition. On the whole, he looks gentle and intelligent, not hard and defiant like I've molded myself to be. When I don’t respond, Cinna coughs delicately and shifts his pant leg. He motions with his eyes, and I look down to see just how alike we are.

A thin scar wraps around his calf, just above his ankle. It’s faded, stretched white, but the indents are unmistakable. This serene, quiet man in front of me has the same violent virus coursing through his veins that I do. 

I drag my eyes back up to his face, trying and failing to conceal my shock. I couldn’t ever have guessed that this was our common denominator in a million years. It’s unfathomable. He’s so calm, so demure. At first, I think this must be a trick. Some sort of prosthetic to complete the undead aesthetic that is apparently fashionable here. Perhaps he’s done this to lure me into trusting him. Why he would bother, I don’t know. Though when I meet his eyes, I see a sliver of something dangerous hiding behind the honeyed orbs, and I know with certainty that this is no trick. 

“I don’t like to share this with most people,” he confesses, pulling his pant-leg back over his ankle, “which I understand is a luxury you were not afforded, unfortunately. But I wanted you to know that while I'm here, you’re not alone.” 

I nod at him slowly, which is about all I can do. My tongue has molded itself to the roof of my mouth. Other than Gale, I've never met anyone else who was bitten by a monster and lived to tell the tale. My head is filled with questions that I don’t know how to ask. Gale and I have both accepted our condition on the pretense of survival, and we keep the effects at bay as well as we can, but both of us have developed ragged edges, always teetering just above violence. Cinna looks as though he sits comfortably a few miles back from the edge. Stupidly, seeing him here, not obviously struggling as I am, gives me a sense of hope. I wish that I had had the chance to meet him in another life, without the catalyst of the Games and the knowledge that I’ll be dead before I ever have the chance to master immunity the way he’s seemed to.

“I’d appreciate it if we kept this between us,” Cinna says quietly. “The officials who need to know about my condition already do, but there’s enough gossip around here without my name being thrown into the mix.”

“Of course,” I say. It comes out in a whisper. I can’t blame him for keeping this a secret. If anything, I'm jealous. The voices of my prep team ring in my ears. If I can protect someone else like me from being treated like a piece of meat, why wouldn’t I? 

“Thank you,” he smiles. “I’m sure we'll have a chance to talk more about this later. Now though, it’s time to discuss your opening ceremony outfit. We're running a bit behind, and I already know how your escort feels about the schedule.” 

The air between us has relaxed considerably. I find talking to him is easy, like someone I've known for years. A few times, I almost forget why we’re together in this room, and start to think of him as, if not quite a friend yet, a companion none the less. Just knowing that someone around me has an intimate understanding of what being immune really means helps to ease my growing anxiety. The virus seems to sense that it’s not alone, either. The insistent pulsing in my wrist has turned into nothing but an annoying prickle.

Cinna and I spend the next hour going over his plans for my look this evening. The opening ceremonies of the Hunger Games is the first chance for the people of the Capitol to see the tributes in person, and first impressions are crucial to spimpressions or so Effie says. We'll be paraded around the City Centre, ending up in front of the president's mansion, where he'll give his welcoming speech. I know from memories of past games that tributes are always dressed in outfits that reflect their district's exports. That means I'll inevitably be dressed in something coal-related, which doesn’t make for a very exciting entrance. Cinna tells me that he and Peeta's stylist, a woman named Portia, have decided to keep our apparel similar. I envision ‘his and hers' coal miner costumes and let out a snort. I can kiss the sponsors away now. Cinna asks me what’s so funny, and when I tell him, he gives me a wounded look.

“Oh, Katniss, no. I would hope you have more faith in me than that. My goal is to make you unforgettable. I want your name to be on every pair of lips in that stadium. I hope you don’t mind, but I let my vision get a little personal.” 

I narrow my eyes. What does personal mean to him? One year, Mother had to force me out of the room when our district's tributes were unveiled during the ceremony, stark naked except for a thick coat of black soot. I grimace, thinking of having to stand beside Peeta like that. 

Cinna grins at me, and I'm a little unnerved at the manic glint in his eye. I’ve possibly misread his gentleness. 

“I think you know as well as I do,” Cinna says, “that when we let it, the virus in our veins burns hotter than fire. So does coal, when we need it to.” 

I blink at him, unsure as to how fire fits into his vision. Perhaps I’ll make history as the first tribute to burn alive before the Games even start. Cinna puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. When he speaks, it’s sharp and commanding, a far cry from his quiet murmurs during the rest of our day.

“Our condition can make us lethal. It’s painful, yes, and isolating, and I won’t deny that I’ve wished more than once that I'd died instead of found that out. But, if you use it to your advantage, Katniss, I believe you can burn a path to victory. I think we need to make them see that right away.” 

Cinna's words are sensational, but I don’t argue with him. He nods until I nod with him and then he smiles again, showing sharp, white teeth. I’m thinking that I've overestimated his sanity until he asks me a question. Then I know I've over-estimated it.

“Katniss, how do you feel about being a girl on fire?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're here, thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think!


	10. Un-Ceremonial

Sometimes, just before I take down a body, be it an animal or the undead, the virus allows me an instant of perfect clarity. My senses sharpen into fatal points, letting me in on the world's secrets. I can hear every rustling blade of grass, smell the smoke of fires burning miles away, taste the sulphur in the air. My hands can feel the silky pelt of a rabbit, or the rotten slime of a corpse's skin, without ever having moved a muscle. I can see the breath of my prey enter and leave its body, unbothered and unaware that it will never see another sunrise. In the moment before I loose an arrow, the undeniable power of the virus shows its true capabilities. It doesn’t happen every time, but when it does, that sensation of pure, predatory sovereignty sends a line of fire through my bloodstream that keeps me chasing the burn for days afterward. The virus has granted me this clarity now, as I stand beside Peeta in the dark underneath the stadium where the opening ceremony is held. This time though, it could not be more clear that here, I am not the predator but the prey.

My eyes bounce around from one potential danger to the next. There’s too many things happening to keep my focus trained for more than a second at a time. Twenty-two other tributes stand in front of Peeta and I on identical horse-led chariots, dressed in costumes of varying splendor, their nervous sweat invading my nostrils and lingering on my taste buds. I can hear them all breathe, some fast and panicked, others slower and more restrained. A few whisper to their partners, but most hold a stony silence. Two huge metal doors stand between us and the crowd, but they do nothing to dampen the riotous callings of the people on the other side. Alcohol fumes leak under the doors, drying my skin and making me feel faint. The horses attached to our cart stamp their hooves nervously, and I can feel the vibrations from it in the soles of my feet. A horn blares from somewhere to my left, and I jerk sideways into Peeta. He stumbles, looks down and smiles reassuringly. 

“They’re just announcing the start of the parade,” he explains. I stare up into his face. His prep team has hardly changed anything about it, except for the bruises and stitches, which have somehow disappeared since this morning. His pale skin is dappled in the shadows thrown by the flaming headpiece he wears. I wear a matching one, along with a cape of the same flaming fashion. Both of us have plain black leotards on under the blazing cloaks, giving us the illusion of being engulfed in fire. It isn’t real fire, of course, but Cinna has made them look so realistic that when he first showed us, I had flat out refused to wear them, so sure that I was about to be burned alive for entertainment. Once he convinced me that it was perfectly safe and I had allowed him to tie the cape around my neck and set it alight, the effect was actually quite stunning. The headpiece completed the look, with tendrils of synthetic flame cascading around my face and woven through my hair. When we first arrived to the waiting area, every other tribute had tossed envious looks our way. We were clearly the most exciting pair, and that had given me a momentary boost of confidence, until the virus reminded me of its presence.

I swallow thickly, grasping onto the front of our chariot. The metal under my fingers is hot within seconds and slick from my sweat. This is all far too overwhelming to handle. The darkness is starting to look redder and redder and I can tell my breathing is far faster than it should be. I don't know how much longer I can control myself. If I give in to my impulses and start attacking everyone now, will they kill me right here in front of the crowd, or wait until after I give them all a show? 

My anxiety must be obvious. As if he can sense my distress, Peeta places his hand on top of mine and squeezes. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he whispers in my ear. “It's just a lap around the stadium. No danger, yet. At least we aren’t naked.” 

I laugh; an airy, hysterical sound. I have to marvel at his ability to attempt a joke right now, even if I can barely hear it over the sound of my own thumping heartbeat. He sounds calm, confident even, but I can hear his heart beating just as wildly as mine is. When I try to tell him that I'm fine, that I'm not terrified and close to losing it completely, the lie gets stuck in my throat. His eyes are wide, the fear in them dancing right along with the reflection of the flames in his pupils, but outwardly, he looks almost nonchalant. Somehow, his capacity to be brave in this situation grounds me. I take a steadying breath and decide that if Peeta Mellark can hold his own in the face of imminent danger, then so can I.

“I'm nervous too,” he confesses, “but Portia and Cinna did a great job. I think we'll get some sponsors out of it. You look very nice.” 

I suppose I should thank him for the compliment, or tell him that he looks nice too, because he does. With his blond curls lapped by flame and blue eyes intensified by some simple black make-up, he reminds me of the pictures I've seen in my mother's old books about ancient Gods. But his words remind me of another boy, one who had told me the same thing just a few days ago. I don’t respond to Peeta, busy imagining Gale, eyes trained on the television screen at home in Twelve, waiting impatiently for me to appear. Will he be able to see how scared I am through the camera lens? Is he also fighting against the virus, trying not to let the panic or the anger overtake him? Or is he even watching, opting instead to take on a guard shift, so as to stay busy and distracted? If our positions were switched, I don’t know if I could bare to see him like this, prettied up and paraded around like a puppet. One thing I do know is, if Gale were here instead of me, he wouldn’t be looking for strength in his district partner. He'd have it all on his own. 

In front of us, two white-clad guards take hold of the handles to the metal doors. They pull them open in unison, and my ears are assaulted by the roar of the crowd. I gather as much air in my lungs as they’ll hold and keep it there, holding my head high and forcing my numb lips into a smile. I may be falling apart on the inside, but I refuse to show these people that. I try to pull my hand out from under Peeta's when the horses pulling our cart start to move, but he grabs onto it even tighter. 

“Wait!” he says, and the reassuring tone is gone. “Don’t let go. Cinna told us to hold hands, remember?”

I do remember. Cinna had shared his vision for our entrance with us before we climbed into the chariot, and it had included holding hands, as partners. I don’t know if this is the right call, to be so openly friendly with my opponent, but the time for second-guessing is over and I can't pretend that the coolness of Peeta's palm doesn’t steady me. There’s no time to argue with him about it anyway, so I slide our intertwined fingers off the edge of the chariot, where they dangle between our bodies. I guess, if our stylists have already decided to show us off as a pair, we may as well play into it. Perhaps they knew something we don’t about what gets sponsorship. 

The second we reach the doorway to the stadium, I’m blown away by the sheer amount of noise. It might only be because we've gotten closer to them, but the people in the stands seem to strain themselves even more once they see us, their shouts and whistles echoing off the walls. Peeta squeezes my hand, and I know he feels it too. All eyes are on us, and they love what they see. I can hear Peeta's name, as well as my own, being shouted at us over and over from everywhere: ‘Katniss! Over here, Peeta! Look up here, Katniss!’ 

Too embarrassed that I might lock eyes with someone, I sneak a peak at one of the screens overhead instead. I understand immediately why they’re desperate for us to acknowledge them. In the soft light of the evening, our fire is magnificent. I’ve never seen anything like it, almost more beautiful than natural flame itself. And, swept up in its embrace, Peeta and I look beautiful, too. No. More than beautiful. We look glorious, powerful, dangerous. We look like Victor material.

The horses lead us in a slow circle around the stadium. We do two full laps, while the spectators howl and cheer and throw flowers at our feet. One hits me in the chest, a perfect white rose. My first instinct is to crush it in my fist just for touching me, but instead I pick it up with gentle fingers, kiss the petals and hold it up for the cameras to see. The crowd goes wild. Though it goes against everything I’ve always stood for, I take the opportunity to make sure at least one person here tonight will remember me. When we get close enough to the stands, I toss the rose back to the crowd, watching with barely concealed surprise as multiple hands squabble for the prize. The winner, a pig-faced man with a sweaty forehead, holds the flower above his head triumphantly like a trophy. I meet his eyes, and before I even realize what I’m doing, I’ve blown him a kiss. A shiver of repulsion runs down my back at the look he gives me for it. I turn away from him and desperately hope that he’ll at least be donating generously. 

The tribute chariots start to make their way out of the stadium one by one, the horses meandering slowly to their final resting place in front of the President's mansion just outside. We’re the last ones to leave, the crowd screaming themselves hoarse to our backs. Peeta twists around just before we exit and lifts our joined hands into the air with a shy, sweet smile. I think I might’ve lost some hearing at the chaos he creates by doing so. I catch sight of us on the screen on our way out and I have to admit that we do look like an unforgettable pair. I try not to think of what Gale might think.

Another set of metal doors slam shut behind us and I face the front again. I had thought the crowd in the stadium was massive, but it’s nothing compared to the swarms of people lining the roped-off sidewalks around us. The virus squirms, itching to infect all of them. I squeeze Peeta's hand so tightly that I'm sure it must be painful, but he doesn’t protest or pull away. Ahead of us, the most gigantic building I’ve ever seen looms. It’s so big it’s almost oppressive, and there’s no question about who its inhabitant must be. This is the President’s mansion. 

The man himself steps out onto a brightly lit balcony once all the chariots have stopped in their rightful places. In person, his figure is so small and shrunken that it’s difficult to distinguish anything about him other than his white suit. Another pair of screens have been set up on either side of his balcony for the audience's benefit, and when the cameras focus on him, I once again find myself making comparisons to the undead. A heavy layer of makeup gives him some colour, but his eyes are just as sunken and dull as they were during his announcement of the games. Regardless, he opens his arms in welcome and smiles with his puffy lips. 

“Tributes, citizens, people of Panem. Allow me to introduce you all to the re-installation of the Hunger Games!” 

I work to keep the placid smile on my face as the crowd screams their approval. President Snow launches into a similar speech to the one our own mayor gave just a few days ago, detailing the history behind the creation of the games and what they mean to our nation. He waxes poetic about the great hardships that Panem has overcome, and discloses again what the tributes are fighting for, other than our own lives. The virus squirms under my skin when he mentions the vaccine. 

Quite unlike District Twelve's response, the cameras facing the crowd show mesmerized faces of people who obviously cannot wait for the excitement and bloodshed to begin. I swallow hard, barely listening, trying hard to keep the virus from escaping. I can sense Peeta watching me from the corner of my eye. I wonder if he’s regretting his decision to keep our hands laced together. 

Throughout the Welcome Speech, shots of the tributes are shown at random to keep interest up for the crowd. I notice that Peeta and I are getting much more airtime than any of our fellow competitors. Our flaming costumes are even more beautiful in the dark, and they illuminate us perfectly for the cameras. My senses are still strained and on alert, and I can feel the murderous stares of the other tributes being thrown our way. My eyes flick to the brute from District Two, who stands directly across from us. He makes no attempt to hide his look of utter contempt. He shakes visibly, fists clenched at his sides. District Two has historically always been a Hunger Games favourite, and he’s no doubt furious at losing face time to a couple of kids from somewhere far less lucrative. His district partner, a petite, dark-haired girl with cold eyes, digs her nails into his arm and whispers something into his ear. I can’t help myself from holding his gaze, nor do I stop myself from giving him a smug smirk before facing the President again. I’ve forgotten that I'm not the only one here tonight who’s struggling with side-effects and that realization somehow helps to calm me. 

When the President concludes his speech, the horses all start to move in tandem. They must be well-trained. We make our way through yet another doorway, out of the crowd's vision and into another dark waiting area. My ears are ringing in the sudden quiet. Our little crew of attendants greet us as we descend from the cart, all of them beaming and looking joyous. Even Haymitch looks in better spirits than I’ve ever seen him.

“You did good, kid,” he compliments me, patting me on the shoulder when I look to him for assurance.

“Good? You two were fabulous!” Effie squeals. “Did you see the way the crowd reacted? Well done, Cinna!” 

Cinna has the good grace to look modest, and reminds Effie that Portia, Peeta's stylist, had just as much of a part to play in tonight's success as he did. But when I meet his eyes, he lifts his lips in a smirk and bends down to my ear.

“I think they saw what we needed them to, don’t you think?” he asks. I nod at him and return the look. Cinna has given me a huge advantage. Before tonight, I may have had some luck with sponsors, with my immunity being public knowledge. Now though, everyone will remember me when they see me in the arena. They will know my name: Katniss, the girl who was on fire. 

It’s only when Cinna holds up a small canister and tells us he’s going to extinguish our flames do I realize that I've never let go of Peeta's hand. I drop it like I’ve been burned, shaking my own to regain some circulation. 

“Thanks for holding on,” he says with a small smile. “I definitely would have fallen off without you keeping me steady.” 

He says this so innocently, so genuinely, that I almost forget that we aren’t real teammates. Before I do something stupid like smile back, I give him a cool nod, careful not to let it show that I needed his courage to get me through the event just as much as he says he needed me. His smile falters, lips twitching downward. Good. Maybe he knows now that his plan to be the proverbial friend won’t work on me any longer. A lick of satisfaction hits me, but it disappears just as fast as it comes when Peeta suddenly charges me. 

I hit the ground hard, gasping when I connect with the cement. My headpiece slips from my hair, bouncing off in the distance. The virus that I’ve been trying so desperately to keep at bay escapes my control with a blinding red flash. Peeta's face swims just above mine for an instant – long enough that I can reach up and dig my fingernails into his cheek, but not long enough for me to inflict any more damage before he disappears from my vision. I fling myself up off the ground, snarling and grinding my teeth like some feral animal. If he wants to start the fight a little early, so be it. 

It takes me a second to catch my bearings. The capes that Cinna extinguished are still smouldering, smoke filling the narrow passageway we stand in. I can make out the outlines of bodies standing all around me, but even with the effects of the virus in full swing, I can’t tell who is who. It will do no good to maim anyone other than my target. Peeta threw the first blow, so I might still get away with the defence excuse, but I'm still coherent enough to understand the consequence of killing my mentor. 

Someone screams – high-pitched and full of pain – from somewhere behind me. I whirl around, following the noise, and I'm nearly knocked back to the ground by the boy from District Two. He barrels towards me, red-faced and seething. The gnarled scar tissue where his ear once was is pulsing in time with his panting. 

“You dirty, fucking bitch!” he shrieks, spittle flying. “You think, just because of some cheap costume trick, that you can act like you’re better than me? You think you can make me look stupid? I'm going to fucking kill you!” 

My fists are up before I’ve even thought about it. I suppose that if my head was clear, I'd be frightened of this boy, so intent on ending my life right here and now. However, the virus sends another jolt of fire up my back, and I feel nothing but impending gratification at finally allowing myself to let it free. 

“I don’t think you need my help to look stupid,” I bite back through gritted teeth. Somewhere through the haze of smoke, I hear Effie groan. 

I'll admit, the speed at which he flies towards me is unnerving. I take a step back, ready to spring out the way, but before I can make any move, the boy suddenly buckles, a blur of blond hair and smoke catching him at the knees. Peeta has thrown himself between the attacker and myself. What an absolute idiot.

The two boys tumble to the ground and roll across the floor, a thin stream of smoke following them. Peeta is quicker than I thought, back on his feet before the other, but he’s not quite quick enough. A fist collides with his nose, blood spraying across the adjacent wall. The smell of it makes my hackles raise, and I rush forward to join in the scrap. A rough hand grabs me at my forearm. I try to pull free, but the hand squeezes tighter. Haymitch looks down his crooked nose at me, shaking his head with a finality that I don’t argue with, even in my current state. By the time I pull my gaze back to the on-going brawl in front of me, it’s been put to an end. 

Four peace keepers jam the noses of their guns in the faces of Peeta and the boy from Two. Peeta puts his palms up in surrender immediately and backs away. The guards allow him to return to our group, their attention rightly focused on their other captive, who paces back and forth behind them, eyes never leaving me. His district partner, the small girl with the cold eyes, has joined the men encircling him.

“Cato! Cato, stop!” she cries. “Just wait! We'll get her when she’s all on her own. When her boyfriend can’t protect her.” 

She sneers at me and a hot pang of anger heats my cheeks. Peeta encroached on my fight. I didn’t need him to protect me, and he’s definitely not my boyfriend. I don’t dare correct her and start another scrap in front of the guards, but the look I give her is plain as day: we'll settle this in the arena. 

The guards lead Cato away with his partner following close behind. I’m left feeling agitated and unsated, the virus gnawing on my bones in it’s fury at it’s lost chance to be set free. Peeta pinches his bleeding nose and looks at me with an expression of mingled regret and exasperation, but I have nothing to say to him. He made me look weak to what will likely be my two toughest competitors. He’s taken away one advantage after I’ve just gained another. The fragile bond we’ve created tonight is gone.

Haymitch stomps off without a word to either of us, muttering something about talking to the officials about punishment. I watch him go, and my eyes fall to the floor, where the tiny girl from Eleven sits, crumpled and forgotten.

I stride over to her, remembering the scream I heard. She watches me approach with wide eyes, fat tears dripping down her cheeks. Thinking of Prim, my heart automatically softens. I bend down to her level, subtly checking for signs of injury.

“Are you hurt?” I ask, adopting the gentle voice I use for my sister when she comes to me in tears. The girl shrugs, her curls bouncing. She hesitates, like she’s about to answer me, but seems to second-guess her answer.

“Were you…bitten?”

My second question is harsher, more business-like. I’ve had to ask this question more than once back home, and it never gets less nerve-wracking. There’s no proof that a bite from someone immune will turn someone who isn’t, but there also isn’t any proof that it won't. As Gale and I were the only people I knew who could test the theory before coming to the Capitol, I’ve never gotten an answer. 

The girl shakes her head vehemently back and forth and wipes her tears away. 

“No! No bites. He just pushed me and I fell. My arm hurts…” She stops talking, suddenly looking suspicious.

“Why do you want to know? Hoping I'm easy-pickings when we’re in the arena?” 

Her question is valid. By all accounts, another tribute being injured before the Games start should please me. They send you in there no matter your condition. But this girl is so small and so much like Prim that I feel almost protective towards her. That’s dangerous for both of us, I realize, and I hoist myself up from my knees. 

“No,” I tell her, “you just reminded me of someone else I knew.” 

She looks at me quizzically, but before we can further this odd conversation, a sharp-looking woman who must be the mentor for Eleven puts her hand on the girl's shoulder and gives me a calculating stare.

“It’s time to go, Rue. We'll get Tendia to look at your arm before bed.” 

I take the hint and start back towards my crew. Before I'm out of earshot, the little girl's tiny voice, brighter and cheerier than just a few moments ago, calls out to me:

“Goodnight, Katniss! Good luck!” 

Oh no. What have I done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Peeta - he's just trying to do right by Katniss!


	11. Help

Haymitch seems to be taking advantage of our deal to leave him and his drinking alone. Though, to look at him as he sways in his chair, stabbing at his plate of breakfast with one squinted eye open, you’d think he’s forgotten about his end of the bargain entirely. 

Effie clicks her tongue and shoots furtive glances between the mentor and his tributes. This morning is no more social than last night's dinner was, the only difference being Haymitch's presence. Effie had raved non-stop about our performance as soon as we entered our new living quarters. She showered Cinna and Portia in compliments, but I could only give subdued thanks when her attention turned on me. The high from our well-received entrance had been snuffed out by the fight with Cato, as was any sort of confidence about my survival, sponsors or not. When I could no longer take Effie's bubbly voice in my ear, I had snapped at her that it didn’t matter, that Peeta and I would still be dead soon whether we looked glamourous or poor. That comment had gotten me swiftly sent to my room, a punishment I wasn’t too upset about. 

Haymitch didn’t return until well after I was sent to bed, but I could hear him storming down the hallway of the District Twelve suite, cursing the Game Officials and raving about ‘due diligence.’ I don’t need to ask him to know that his conversation with the officials about the boy from Two didn’t go the way he planned. He seems to be drowning his annoyance in the flask he keeps putting to his lips.

Today's agenda is meant to be all about strategy, but no one is very talkative. Still agitated and annoyed about the events following the ceremony last night, I shovel forkfuls of food into my mouth to keep from having to start the conversation. Peeta mirrors Effie, looking back and forth between Haymitch and I and fidgeting in his seat. When the sullen silence stretches on even after the waiters collect our plates, it seems Peeta can no longer wait.

“So, training starts tomorrow,” he says, eyeing Haymitch. His nose is still swollen from last night, and his voice comes out slightly nasally. The old man grunts in response.

“Is there anything we should know before then?” Peeta asks. His tone is polite, but more suitable for talking to a child than an adult. Haymitch sighs and sets his glass down on the table.

“Look kid, like I said, everything is different now. I don’t know what they’ll be expectin' you to do.” 

“Give us your best guess, then,” Peeta retorts. “And please, hold off on the liquor. A deal is a deal, and we've held up our end.” 

I have to admire his gall. Haymitch seems to as well, because he doesn’t snap back at Peeta. He does, however, give him a long look, and Peeta seems to sense that he’s hit his limit of requests for the day.

“Alright, alright,” Haymitch says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “Let's get started, then. First things first. Do you want to train separately or together? Either is fine by me.” 

I consider this. I hadn’t realized there were options. On the one hand, seeing exactly what Peeta can do before we’re pitted against each other in the arena might be beneficial. On the other, that means more time in close proximity with him, where he can continue to lure me in with his kindness. It might be a ploy, but he’s already shown just how convincing he can be. 

“Katniss?” 

I look up from my lap. Peeta stares at me expectantly, letting me decide for the both of us. So damn polite.

“I think it’s best if we train one on one,” I say. It’s better that way. We'll both get more dedicated time with Haymitch, and I can keep that line of cool separation between us from the start. Peeta blinks at me. I divert my eyes from his, but not before I notice the flicker of hurt that he does his best to hide away.

“Okay then,” Haymitch agrees, seemingly oblivious to Peeta's disappointment. “Who wants first crack at it?” 

“Peeta can go first,” I say, already rising from the table. I’m still not in a mood to be very social, and some time to myself for what will likely be the last time is a welcome thought. 

“Alright. Peeta, you and I will discuss tactics and what you’re good at until lunch,” Haymitch says. His voice is already less slurred than it was during breakfast, and I wonder just how much of his alcohol-induced stupor is for show. Peeta mumbles something too low for me to catch. 

“Katniss,” Haymitch calls before I can make my exit. “Go find Cinna. He said he wanted to show you something. Just be back here for noon.” 

I wander out of the dining room, wondering where I’m supposed to find my stylist in this maze of a suite. If I have to be around anyone this morning, I suppose Cinna is my first choice, but finding him might be a challenge. He wasn’t at breakfast, and I don’t really want to go knocking on doors. The tributes and their collective teams were all given an entire floor of the training centre, where we'll live until the actual games begin. As the twelfth, and last, district, Peeta and I were sent to the very top floor of the building. The “penthouse,” Effie had called it excitedly. Whoever was in charge of the décor went completely overboard, in my opinion. All the furniture is a blinding white. There’s a television screen in every room. The shower in my own quarters has about a hundred different buttons that sprayed me with different coloured soaps when I started pressing them at random this morning. I suppose all of this grandeur must seem like a kind of charity to the Capitol; showing the tributes a life of unfathomable luxury before sending us to slaughter. All it does for me though, is prove that another one of their statements is a lie – the Capitol cannot be struggling like the Districts with this much gold to throw around.

Flashing neon lights catch my attention, blinking at me through the giant window that lines the whole left side of our floor. They’re mesmerizing, if not a little disorienting. The lights flash advertisements for this shop and that restaurant, but the names of the places mean nothing to me. What registers is the jealousy they create. Here is a world where advertisements are priority, not warnings or outbreak announcements.

Beyond the signs, giant buildings that seem to touch the clouds above stand tall and proud and full of people. Even from behind the glass, I can hear car horns and people shouting and other sounds that I can’t place. This chaotic, colourful world is so busy and crowded and so very different than my life back home that it causes a lump full of homesickness to build in my throat. I swallow it back down when Cinna's reflection appears before me on the glass. 

“Haymitch tells me you have some free time?” he asks.

“Yeah. He’s talking about strategy with Peeta. I’m free until lunch,” I explain. Cinna nods with a look of polite curiosity.

“You're not training together?” he asks. 

“No.” 

I don’t elaborate, and he doesn’t ask me to. Cinna may be the closest I have to a friend here, but my reasoning behind staying away from Peeta isn’t one I know how to put into words without sounding silly. It would do no good to have the boy in question overhear it, either. 

Cinna just shrugs and says he’s sure I know what I'm doing, and then he tells me to follow him.

“There’s something I think you should see. It gave me a little more perspective when I first found it,” he says in his quiet manner. 

I follow him out of the lounge and into the hallway. He leads me all the way past the bedrooms and kitchen and stops in front of an unmarked door.

“After you,” he smiles.

I head up a number of stairs and push another door open. I’m greeted by a gush of wind and cold air. Cinna has lead me to the roof of the training centre.

“Are we allowed to be up here?” I ask, raising my voice over the wind. Cinna shrugs again, a small smile playing on his lips.

“The door wasn’t locked. I don’t see why not,” he says.

I shuffle carefully to the edge of the rooftop. I’ve not afraid of heights – I’ve been climbing trees for nearly as long as I’ve known how to walk – but I can safely say this is the highest altitude I’ve ever experienced, and the wind up here is vicious. 

“What do you see, Katniss?” Cinna asks once we've successfully made it to the edge.

“The Capitol,” I say bluntly. Our place on the rooftop does make for a spectacular view, but it’s the same city that I’ve seen from the window. The same neon lights blink at me from here, too. Cinna chuckles softly. 

“Of course. But what else?” 

I search the kaleidoscope sea of the Capitol, trying to catch a glimpse of anything special that I'm supposed to be noticing, but I come up empty. There are hundreds of things down there that are strange and new and intimidating, but nothing that looks like it may give me a ‘new perspective,’ whatever that means. I turn to Cinna and shrug.

“What about beyond the city?” Cinna prompts. 

This game is already getting annoying. I don’t have much patience to begin with, and I’ve been in a bad mood since last night. I search the city from our perch again. The giant mountain from which we entered the Capitol sits as solid and unmovable as ever to my left. Buildings and shops and gigantic screens fill the center of the city as far as I can see. If I squint hard, I can just make out what might be a wall of some sort to the far right of my vision, but it’s too far away to be certain. I blow a lock of hair out of my face and turn back to my stylist.

“I don’t know what you want me to see, but I don’t see it,” I grumble. 

“Here, maybe these will help.” 

From an inside pocket of his jacket, Cinna pulls out a small, golden set of binoculars. My father had a set of them for hunting once, but we had to sell them shortly after the first outbreak. The ones Cinna offers me are far more advanced than those were. He gestures for me to look through the lenses and guides me to where I should look, gently pushing me until I'm staring right at what I can now confirm is a giant, cement wall, barricading the city. Just beyond that, in a loping valley with sparse greenery, I see something that makes me gasp and almost drop the device off the roof. 

“I’ve never seen so many of them at once,” I say through shaky lips.

“I hadn’t either,” Cinna says grimly, “until I discovered this. I believe they’re called here by the lights and constant sound.” 

The ‘they' in question are what we call a horde. Hundreds and hundreds of monsters. Maybe even thousands. More than enough to decimate the Capitol and beyond, should the wall fail to hold. Through the binoculars, they look like a swarm of furious, pulsing bugs. They’re much too far away to see the details of their rot, but I imagine the screaming and snarling they must be making and the virus in my own veins snaps back at them. 

“Why haven’t they been put down?” I ask. “The Capitol must know they’re there!” 

Cinna shakes his head and looks in the direction of the wall. I’m forced to step closer to him to hear his answer.

“I’m not sure, but I have my suspicions. I don’t believe the citizens have any idea, but the President and his inside circle must know about them if you and I could find them so easily. Perhaps they don’t see them as a threat, as foolish leaders have been known to think. Or perhaps they’re being kept there as a resource or a weapon. I can’t say, and I think the only one who can wants to wait for the perfect moment to unveil the surprise.” 

I look around nervously at Cinna's blatantly treasonous words. You get the feeling that you’re being watched everywhere you go here, and if there’s one rule I’ve always known, it’s to never speak ill of the Capitol within listening distance. Ever. Cinna turns away from the horde and smiles at me when he sees my expression.

“Don’t worry, I'm fairly certain that no one can hear us up here. Even the best technology is no match for Mother Nature's own brand of secrecy.” He lifts his arms and motions around us at the howling wind. He’s probably right, but I still have a knot of nerves twisting in my stomach. 

“Why did you want to show me this?” I ask. While I appreciate the forewarning of a potential disaster, I admit that I don’t see it’s importance. I’ll likely be dead in a week, and there’s no viable way to warn my family about it. Cinna gives me a long look and steps even closer to me, so that we’re now practically nose to nose. When he speaks, the wind almost carries his whisper away before I can hear it.

“When President Snow said his Game Makers would make sure that immunity wouldn’t matter in the arena, what do you think he meant by it?” 

I inhale a lungful of frozen air and stare past Cinna at the wall. Unleashing that large of a mob of bloodthirsty monsters on all of the tributes would certainly take away much of my advantage from the virus. Immunity protects you from turning, but it can’t save you from being ripped apart by a horde. It makes perfect sense, now that Cinna has pointed it out, to use the undead against us, as plentiful and violent as they are. Yet somehow, though I’ve imagined countless scenarios that end in my death in the last few days, they never involved the things I’ve been fighting for most of my life. 

“So we'll be fighting them as well as each other,” I say hollowly. Any smidgen of hope I had left has vacated the premises. 

“I have a strong feeling that that is the plan, yes,” Cinna nods, “though I have nothing to do with the creation of the Games, and I could be wildly off-base.” 

“Won't you be punished for telling me this?” I ask with narrowed eyes. “I thought no one was allowed to know anything about the Games until they start.” 

“I won’t tell if you won't,” he shrugs. “I’d prefer to think of this as a friend sharing theories with another friend, which I think is still well within the rules.” 

A friend. I suppose that Cinna must really consider me one, if he’s willing to risk giving me this potential hint at what I'm about to face. I can’t think of anything fitting to say to thank him, so we stand together in silence for a while, shivering in the wind. 

As I think of the horrors that await me, my thoughts slip unbidden to the only other friend I have. Gale. I realize with more than a bit of guilt that in the whirlwind of these past few days, I’ve completely forgotten that his birthday has already passed. It doesn’t make a difference, I suppose, with no way to contact him, but to not even think about him on his own day makes me feel like I’ve done him a great injustice. I wonder if he’s already been sent on a mission, or if he’s still as forlorn and hopeless as when we last spoke. I think of his rage and torment at the Games, and how their re-installment burnt him out before they even began. That, unfortunately, pushes me into thoughts of Prim, and how she wept and screamed and pleaded for me not to leave her. How she made me promise her to stay alive, to fight my hardest to come home to her after this sadistic interpretation of entertainment is done with. I stare out into the city, at the homes of these people who can barely wait to watch us all die, and I hardly care to fight it when my vision starts to blend all the colours of the Capitol into one crimson tone. 

“I hate them,” I say, so lowly it's almost a growl. “I hate them all. I hope that wall breaks before I ever set foot in an arena. I hope they all die.”

“I understand,” Cinna says steadily, “but let me show you something else, if you’ll allow it.” 

He hums and steps back from the edge, motioning me to do the same. I swallow thickly and ball my hands into fists at my sides, following him away from the edge and breathing deeply through my nose to calm myself down. He pulls a coin out of his pocket and casually flips it over the edge of the roof. I have to fight the urge not to scramble after it – money has been so hard to come by in my life that the act of tossing it away doesn’t sit right with me, even in my heightened state. Before I can take a step towards it though, the coin reappears and flies back into Cinna's hand.

“They installed a force field,” he explains.

To stop tributes from jumping to their death, I realize. A grim thought, but a smart one. If I didn’t have Prim rooting for me at home, I might dare to take the plunge myself. It would probably be less painful than what’s waiting for me. I glance at my stylist and wonder if he’s showing me this as a precaution, a warning of what would happen if I tried. 

“I’ll bet you know exactly why the Capitol did this. Do you think anyone down there would understand?” he asks.

I think about everyone I’ve met since my arrival to the Capitol. Aside from Cinna (who I'm starting to understand could not have been born here), they’re all nice enough, but vapid and senseless to a fault. I’ll bet that the very last thing on their minds if shown this rooftop would be an easy way out. They’d all be too enamoured by the suite, the food, the glamour. The only way they’d ever know about the force field is if their drink spilled over the edge. 

“No, I don’t think they’d know why it’s here,” I answer him. “But why would that matter? Of course they wouldn’t know.” 

“It matters, Katniss, because knowing who the real enemy is is of great importance, no matter the situation,” Cinna tells me. “These people have never known fear, or hardship, or how to survive. They have no idea what lies beyond their safe little world. The idea of ending your own life, or the reason behind it, would never even occur to them. It’s the same principle with the undead just beyond their doorstep. Even if they knew, do you think it would cause anything but mass panic? Do you think they would be strong enough to fix the problem? I don’t. That isn’t their fault, and we can’t blame them for not knowing, but it does make for a damning case against the people who govern them.” 

I don’t have anything to say to that. The logical part of me understands what Cinna is trying to tell me – that the Capitol citizens are not who I should be directing my hatred toward. The Hunger Games are mere entertainment to them because that’s all they’ve ever been taught. They don’t see the tributes as people, but as playthings, because we don’t look or act or live like any of them, and the President has done nothing but encourage that fallacy. Still, the way Cinna talks so openly against the President and his council makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know why he’s confiding in me about it, either. Maybe its because he knows that I’m just a tribute about to fight for my life, and that I'll probably lose. Whatever his reason, he must see that I'm unsure of what to think about it. He backs away and looks me up and down, taking in my pursed lips and trembling legs.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to bring you up here to rant at you. You have far too much going on already,” he says. “I just wanted you to know that you have people in your corner who want to help, and we can do a bit more than make you look pretty.” 

I stare at him dumbly. How do I tell him that anyone in my corner is wasting their time? My thoughts must be plastered on my forehead, because Cinna gives me a serious look and squares his shoulders to mine. 

“You’re a fighter, Katniss,” he says, and his quiet tone has hardened. “With or without the virus in your veins, I can see that. It’s in the way you think, the way you see a way out or a way forward. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for, too,” he adds when I roll my eyes. “Last night, you were scared senseless, fighting tooth and nail not to let the virus win. I could see it in your eyes. But it worked. The Capitol loves you. You played them perfectly, acted exactly how you needed to, on nothing but instinct. Not everyone can do that, and not everyone can hold themselves together in an environment like that. The boy from Two, for example.” 

“So?” I retort. “What good will smiling for the cameras do when I'm running from the undead or trying to dodge a knife?” 

“Nothing,” Cinna agrees, “but it shows that you’re willing to do what you need to in order to survive.” 

For some reason, Cinna's pep talk does not encourage me. Rather, it fills me with a sense of dread. Yet another person counting on me that I will undoubtedly let down. I find myself looking for excuses.

“It wasn’t all me. I would have had an episode if Peeta hadn’t…” 

If Peeta hadn’t what? Soothed me? Talked me down? Held my hand? With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I realize that I owe yet another unpayable debt to the boy with the bread. Cinna gives me a knowing smile that is unbearably irritating. 

“Yes, funny how that works, having help,” he says slyly. “You know, I don’t know Peeta as well as I've gotten to know you, but I'm willing to bet that he's a fighter too, in his own way.” 

I stare determinedly at the ground. I have agree with him. Peeta is a fighter, even if he doesn’t look it. He’s kind and friendly and too polite for his own good, but he was also a part of the scout team back home. He’s probably seen more combat than I ever have. And, I think, you’d have to be a fighter to grow up with a mother like his. Maybe I spoke too quickly when I said I didn’t want to train with him. 

“Anyway,” Cinna says airily, glancing at his wristwatch and winking at me, “it's nearly lunch time, I think. I’m sorry to have eaten up all your free time, but we shouldn’t be late. Your escort will have an aneurism.” 

I follow Cinna's lead and laugh at his joke about Effie as we head back down the stairs. I try my hardest to act nonchalant and not like I’ve just been given terrifying, invaluable, illegal information from my stylist. We head into the dining room just ahead of Haymitch and Peeta. The former looks slightly less sullen than this morning, while the latter looks composed and relaxed, if not a little distant. I notice that Peeta waits for me to sit down before choosing his own seat, as far away as possible from me.

“How was your morning with Haymitch?” Cinna asks Peeta as he takes his place beside Portia.

“Fine!” Peeta says, much too brightly. I face Haymitch for confirmation.

“Yeah, I think you’ll do okay, kid,” the old man says, “so long as we can keep you away from that snot-rag until you’re in the arena.” 

“A snot-rag?” Effie repeats with disgust.

“Cato, the boy from Two,” Peeta answers her. He wipes a hand across his nose and sniffs.

“They’re still letting him train with the rest of us after last night?” I ask indignantly. I know Haymitch's complaint didn’t go over well, but this seems like a gross oversight on the Capitol's part. 

“No harm, no foul, so they say,” Haymitch says with annoyance, “Peeta’s nose notwithstanding, obviously.” 

I cross my arms over my chest and stew in this new information. This isn’t good. If this Cato boy couldn’t control his impulses after a smirk, what’s he going to do when we’re all handed weapons? Peeta and I will both be maimed or worse before tomorrow's over, I'm sure of it.

“They're just going to let him run rampant in there and injure us all before the Games? We might as well give up now,” I snarl. 

“Well, actually, about that…” Haymitch says slowly. “The officials did decide on a certain…precaution, but we'll talk about that during your training time.” 

I don’t understand why Haymitch wants to tell me about this in private, but the way he diverts his eyes from mine gives me the sinking feeling that I won’t like whatever it is. 

Unfortunately, my chance to push him further is lost when the Capitol attendants enter with our lunch. These attendants are just as silent as the ones on the train. I haven’t heard one make a sound my whole stay, though there’s been many of them crawling all over our suite. They stand in corners, waiting to clear plates, change the bedding, pick up dirty laundry. Effie treats them like her own personal servants, which I suppose they are, for now, but every time one of them cleans up after me, I feel guilty and childlike. I’ve always been in charge of my own chores, and it feels ridiculous to stop now. However, the guilt doesn’t stop me from gorging myself on the food they bring.

My mouth waters at the plate of stew that’s set in front of me, and it takes real effort to lift my eyes from it to thank the giver before I dig in. When I lock eyes with the woman who’s brought it though, all thoughts of hunger disappear, because my stomach is suddenly filled to the brim with shock.

“I know you!” I exclaim to her. 

“No, you don't,” Haymitch corrects me quickly.

“But I do!” I argue, stupidly. “You're-” 

“You can’t know her, she’s an Avox,” Haymitch cuts my off sharply. The look he gives me says to stop disagreeing immediately. The woman in front of me shakes her head back and forth desperately. Her black hair falls into her eyes, but I see the grey orbs widen behind it. A thick metal choker around her neck bounces up and down heavily. She backs away from me quickly until she hits the wall behind her, where she stands with her head bowed, shaking and gripping her hands together.

“What's an Avox?” I ask, looking around the table.

“A criminal,” Effie answers promptly. “Someone who’s committed treason against the Capitol. They’re servants, only to be spoken to when you need something. You’d never have met her, unless you’ve done something terrible you’ve neglected to tell us.” 

She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow at me and I panic momentarily before I catch that she’s joking. 

“Okay…” I say slowly. “She just looked…familiar…” 

I am not at all convincing.

“Delly Cartwright!” Peeta suddenly exclaims, making me jump. He snaps his fingers together as if he’s just remembered something.

“That’s who she looks like! I thought she looked familiar too, but I just realized that she looks just like Delly from back home!” 

“Oh, right! Yes, that must be it,” I gratefully latch on to Peeta's suggestion, shooting him a lightning-quick smile of thanks.

“Funny how we find those little connections, isn’t it?” Cinna asks, and the mood around the table has gone back to a calmer state. My insides are a whole other story. I sneak another glance at the Avox who still shakes in the corner. She could not be further in looks from Peeta's friend, but there’s no doubt that I’ve seen her before. I pick up my fork, only to discover that I am shaking just as badly as the girl behind me, and decide that I need a second to breathe before I really blow my cover.

“I've just realized, I forgot to wash my hands before lunch,” I say. It’s a weak excuse, but no one calls me on it. I rush out of the dining room, heading for the bathroom at the end of the hall. Heavy footsteps follow me and I pick up my pace, certain that I’ve just gotten myself in trouble. I reach the door to the bathroom, but before I can close it behind me, a hand pushes it back. 

“Forgot to wash my hands too,” Peeta shrugs, leaning against the door frame. I back up to let him enter the room. There’s two sinks, in true Capitol fashion, and we both stand in front of one each. When the water gushes from them both, Peeta looks at me out of the corner of his eye.

“So, Delly Cartwright,” he muses. “How strange that she showed up here.” 

I scrub my hands vigorously, not able to calm my breathing or look Peeta in the eye yet. Into the mirror, I say “Thank you for covering. I owe you.” 

“The only thing you owe me is an explanation, I think. If you want to tell me, that is.” 

If only he knew how much else I already owe him, especially after my decision to separate us. Yet, when I envision that woman, and the last time I saw her before today, I find that I do want to tell someone about it. Just not here, where prying ears hide. 

“Have you been to the rooftop yet?” I ask him out of the corner of my mouth. 

“No, I didn’t know we could go up there,” Peeta says.

“We’re allowed. Cinna showed me this morning, while you were with Haymitch,” I say. “It's got a beautiful view of the city. The wind is really loud, though.” 

Thankfully, Peeta takes my hint and nods at his reflection in the mirror. 

“I’d love to see it. Do you want to go now?” 

“No, not now,” I say quickly. That would be too suspicious. “But I bet the view's even better at night.” 

“You're probably right,” he agrees. “Show me after dinner?” 

I nod once and he grins at me through the mirror.

“Great. It’s a date!” He says, drying his hands. “By the way, good luck with Haymitch today, Katniss. He’s tough, but he’s smart. I think he might have some tricks up his sleeves that will help us.” 

The word ‘help’ makes a funny feeling register in my brain that feels a lot like regret. I stare at Peeta's back as he heads back down the hall, and curse Cinna when I call out his name before I can stop myself.

“Peeta?”

He turns around, searching my face.

“Yeah?”

The question tumbles out of my mouth before I have a chance to do anything about it.

“Would it be okay… if it’s not too late, I mean… Can we still train together?”

The smile he beams at me reaches up to his eyes.

“Of course, Katniss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks for reading. I hope I did Cinna justice in this one. I've always loved Katniss' friendship with him, but I always wanted more out of it.
> 
> Please let me know if you're into it!


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